


All The King's Men

by harpybones



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Developing Friendships, Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Gen, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nazi Germany, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vietnam War, World War I, World War II, gulag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 55,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpybones/pseuds/harpybones
Summary: “Pale Death, with an impartial tread, beats at the poor man's cottage door and at the palaces of kings.”- Horace***"Mercenary, a liar of a word. One who utters it in lieu of the truth is a coward; a prevaricator to the prevarication.In reality, those that call themselves mercenaries only want to be held in the same regard as honest, courageous, and dignified men; yet mercenaries hold no honor, nor courage, nor dignity- for what is honorable, courageous, and dignified about shameless havoc and carnage? Where stands a great man's brazen pride atop his mighty peak built upon countless butchered bodies?There is no pride in destruction, for great men find little fulfillment where weak men find arrogance, and yet a great man's might dwindles when he can no longer chase it.Where there is no honor, nor courage, nor dignity to gain, great men and weak men become equals; soldiers to mercenaries, kings to peasants.Thus when there is no ambition; no honor, nor courage, nor dignity, only Death remains."***("&" = friendships, while "/" = romantic relationships. Tags will change.)Newest Ch.: 24, "Nincsenek Istenek"Newest Art: Ch. 8, "Meet the Heavy"
Relationships: Demoman & Soldier & Engineer, Heavy & Medic (Team Fortress 2), Miss Pauling & Scout (Team Fortress 2), Scout & Sniper (Team Fortress 2), Scout's Mother/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 141
Kudos: 128





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATKM has historical and real-world references sprinkled in, meaning that unlike TF2 itself, it doesn't sit in a silly alternate universe. The main story takes place during the late '60s and early '70s, while a few backstories are pictured beforehand in the '30s-'50s. Events such as the World Wars (Nationalism, Anti-European and Anti-Foreigner sentiment, Nazi Germany, Soviet Occupation of Eastern Europe, etc.) the Civil and Equal Rights Movements, '60s Counterculture and Vietnam, Racism and Red Scare, etc., will be mentioned. I highly advise you to read the tags; they change as the story goes on. As someone who loves history, this is something I have enjoyed writing. However, if any of this bothers you, please don't hate in the comments. Just move on.
> 
> EDIT 1/5/21: For the 8 year anniversary of ATKM's existence (and 1 year since I began posting it here), I will be reworking the first few chapters of this story. I've noticed that the tone of these chapters do not entirely match the newer updates, and that bothers me. Be on the lookout for changes.

Initially, this wasn’t what Ms. Pauling had expected when she was accepted into TF. Industries. Of course, she was well aware that in these technologically advanced post-industrial times; endless fights for power, corporate greed, and vast espionage were practically socially accepted aspects of the modern way of life. It _was_ the modern way of life. Technology ruled the world, with megarobotics, supercomputers, and the grand-mechanical sciences- unbeknownst to the general populace, of course... for the moment. 

Despite knowing that, Ms. Pauling still had not expected this.

Yesterday she had landed in Spokane, a beautiful city in the state of Washington. Ms. Pauling didn’t have much time to take in the charm of the city, though; her body was fatigued from jetlag, and she longed for a bed- even a park bench would do. She considered it at the time. Luckily, it didn’t take long for her to find a rest stop. After grabbing her luggage and leaving the busy airport behind her, Ms. Pauling immediately spotted a cozy hotel that was conveniently located a few blocks from the airport. ' _The location’s perfect, business there must be pretty good_ ,' she thought. ' _If this job doesn't work out, I think I already have a backup in mind_.'

But enough about that, Ms. Pauling told herself. Her legs were killing her, and her arms felt like noodles against the weight of her luggage. It was time to find a bed. Quickly.

Ms. Pauling received the letter of acceptance a week prior, it was a response to her request for hire, so it said. According to the letter, she was wanted, but instead of giving contact information, she received instructions on what to do next. 

_“On May 10th,”_ it read, _“...you are expected at the TF. Industries HQ at 1 PM.”_

Ms. Pauling booked a flight to Spokane, Washington from Geneva, New York that would arrive on May 9th. That would be ideal, she thought, since she was certain that rest would be a priority after an 8 or 9-hour flight. When she awoke the next day, Ms. Pauling decided to leave around noon, earlier than instructed.

However, that afternoon was plagued with a heavy downpour. Great gray clouds hung low and thick, but Ms. Pauling wasn’t going to let one bad storm ruin this major job opportunity. This kind of thing doesn’t happen often, especially not with folks in her profession. With her black umbrella held close above her head, Ms. Pauling sprinted through puddles, almost slipped crossing a corner, even got a few big splashes of cold water on her black dress; yet the small woman treaded on until she reached the entrance of TF. Industries HQ. For a moment Ms. Pauling eased her anxiety. She performed a few routine breathing exercises, inhaling and exhaling in even breaths. As she did, her eyes flicked around and studied the scenery. 

_TF. Industries chose an interesting place for their headquarters,_ she noted. It was elevated, built on a hill, and stood out among the other structures in Spokane. The giant ivory building itself appeared almost ominous in the storm as it loomed over the muggy city below.

When she entered through the auto-sliding doors, the first thing that caught her attention was such a spotless, clean lobby. The ceiling's lights reflected off the shiny floors, almost blinding her when it flashed onto the lenses of her ivory cateye glasses. Ms. Pauling blinked repeatedly, allowing her eyes to readjust to the lighting, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose before closing her black umbrella and walked across that unusually vibrant tiles, her white heels tapping lightly as she approached the politely smiling blonde woman behind the front desk.

“Good afternoon.” The woman greeted. 

“Good afternoon.” Ms. Pauling replied with a grin. “It’s really coming down, huh?”

“That it is.” The woman answered. “How may I help you?”

Ms. Pauling handed the woman the card that was mailed to her, along with the letter of acceptance. She was instructed to hand the mysterious card to the informant behind the front desk, who Ms. Pauling assumed this woman was. The blonde took the card and examined it, before glancing back to Ms. Pauling and smiled. She slid the card across the orange reader behind the counter, and a small ding along with the sound of sliding doors opening echoed throughout the large room. Intrigued, Ms. Pauling glanced around the room, trying to find the source of the noise. Despite growing up in what some would consider a rather advanced city, all this technology was still new to her. 

The blonde chuckled, seeing how silly Ms. Pauling looked as she stumbled around like a child, and said “Up the stairs, you’ll see a large elevator. Press the 15th-floor button.” She gestured to the short, spiraling staircase. “Welcome to TF. Industries, Ms. Pauling.” The woman held out the card to her.

A sudden wave of happiness flushed over Ms. Pauling as she took the card back from the blonde. “Oh- Thank you, Miss…?”

“Diana Watney.” The blonde responded.

“Watney,” Ms. Pauling repeated quietly to herself. She smiled, waved to Diana and turned for the stairs. “Right. I’ll remember. Thank you, Ms. Watney!”

Ms. Pauling quickly disappeared up the stairs. She was eager to see her new employer, whoever that was, and begin what she considered to be a new life. This was the big break she was looking for. This was that perfect opportunity her mother had told her about, this was what she had worked so hard for. 

No, Ms. Pauling never expected this.

After arriving on the 15th floor, two armed guards held their rifles up to her head the second she exited the elevator. Ms. Pauling had squeaked in surprise and held up her hands. With their large weapons and intimidating black uniforms, the guards demanded to see her business ID card, to which she quickly complied. The two men examined the legitimacy of the card, searching for specific details, Ms. Pauling assumed. Afterwards, they nodded, then directed Ms. Pauling to their boss’ office. Well, escorted her, of course. Can’t be too careful these days, Ms. Pauling supposed.

Now, she sat across from a mature woman, perhaps in her late 50’s, gray strands peeking through her fluffy dark hair. She oddly seemed both unenthused and intrigued simultaneously. On the left side of her chest, her white name tag was fastened tightly. In bold print, it read, Caldwell.

“Security is a priority.” The old woman explained. “TF. Industries is a powerful company, you see. Jealousy is expected… we have a lot of enemies.”

Ms. Pauling nodded. “I understand.” She glanced behind her, where the guards still stood, blocking the exit. At the sound of shuffling papers, Ms. Pauling turned back to the old woman.

The crone skimmed through a box of various folders as she spoke. “You performed remarkably in school. You graduated at the top of your class, earning you internships at the most respectable of companies.” With her slender wrinkled hand, she pulled a thick folder from the box and placed it on the desk. She pushed it towards Ms. Pauling. “You did, as many have done before you. It is nothing exceptional.”

All former excitement within her faded. She wasn’t impressed. How could she not be impressed? Hours upon endless hours of hard work and preparation, sleepless nights dragged on with long and boring study sessions, all the anxiety and stress built up before every big milestone… 

Before Ms. Pauling could question, the old woman continued. “Your file caught my eye, Ms. Pauling. Not because you performed well in school, or your work experience ...no matter how useful that may be... Your file caught my eye because of your... listed mentors.”

Ms. Pauling sat quietly. Her mentors? She knew that her future employers would look into who she interned for; the more strict the company, the better it looks on one’s record. But what exactly would be significant about her mentors? They were just names. Surely the company itself shows more significance. “...They are very intelligent men, ma’am. What about them?”

“That they are, and loyally jointed informants for TF Industries.”

Ms. Pauling’s eyes widened as her head tried to wrap around the statement. TF. Industries HQ is in Spokane, in Washington state, on the west coast. Ms. Pauling herself grew up in New York state, and interned at decent businesses in her home city of Geneva, on the east coast! How could people so far apart connect that quickly?

The crone continued. “Every intern that begins under their supervision is listed in our combined database. If they show promise, I take an interest, and I monitor.” Her long index finger flipped open the folder and pointed to the name Derek Anderson. “Mr. Anderson is a long-time acquaintance of mine and is responsible for bringing me some of my best employees. 

“Anderson… Anderson Weaponry. Yes, I was his accountant.”

“You appeared to be more than just that, Ms. Pauling. Mr. Anderson gave you several different tasks to do, and you excelled, according to him. Everything from espionage, intimidation, and hitman work.” A small curt smile appeared on the woman’s aged face. “Fascinating.”

Ms. Pauling shifted in her seat. “Well, I was just doing what he asked, ma’am.”

“Oh, do not give me that.” The old woman closed the folder and focused on Ms. Pauling’s face. “Anderson wouldn’t have given these assignments to just anyone. He gave them to you because he knew you would accept them. That innocent, harmless act you have does not fool me, Ms. Pauling.”

As the old crone held her stare on the younger woman, Ms. Pauling tapped her heel on the ground. She performed her absolute best in school. She refused to do the bare minimum. She fought to excel in everything. This wasn’t forced upon her, she wanted to do this. Her mother warned her about what could happen if she failed to meet the expectations of the highest employers, there was a fate waiting for those that failed to succeed. 

It’s a battle out there, and she wasn’t going to lose. 

Her mother made sure she knew the consequences of failure. Her mother taught her how to fight against it. She told her not to be afraid of what she might have to do. 

She told her about the bigger picture. 

She told her it would all be worth it in the end.

There is no shame in climbing up the ladder.

“Silence, Ms. Pauling?”

“Oh,” Ms. Pauling quickly crossed her legs. “Yes, I won't deny the things I’ve done.”

The crone opened a drawer from her cabinet and pulled a paper from it. “I am not shaming you, dear. I want someone with such a versatile skill.” She slid the paper over to Ms. Pauling.

Ms. Pauling glanced down to the sheet, Employee of Interest Survey Form, it read. She raised her head and looked back at the woman. “What will I be doing, ma’am?”

“You’ll be assisting me in my affairs. That is all you need to know.”

Ominous, but Ms. Pauling was more than intrigued.

“Additionally,” The woman continued, tapping a finger on the weekly amount section of the form. “The pay is rather handsome.”

One grand a _week_.

Ms. Pauling’s eyes widened. How could anyone possibly pay something that much a week? Everything about this interview was more than strange, and far from normal. But despite this…

After a few seconds, Ms. Pauling took a pen from the holder and tapped it open. “Where... will I be staying?”

“We have employee housing.” The crone answered.

“Good…” She whispered to herself. “Good… Um, Ms. Caldwell-?” 

“Do not call me that, please.” She responded.

“What- What would you prefer me to call you?”

The old woman thought for a moment. “Just call me… Administrator.”

No, there was never an idea, a thought- nothing that would have caused Ms. Pauling to ever expect this.

Something about this building, this company, and this woman felt very unusual. Ms. Pauling recalled her mother's words.

There is always a bigger picture.

Perhaps she was simply overthinking it, but she couldn’t help but feel as if that statement applied here. Ms. Pauling wasn’t stupid. She knew this woman was in for herself, and she was only an asset.

There indeed is a bigger picture.

In an age like this, when is there not?

**🜚**


	2. Cover Art (old, will be updated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! WILL BE UPDATED SOON!!


	3. Meet: The Scout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 11/21/20: Profile shots at the end.

_Underneath the stadium’s floodlight, the night was cold. Still. Quiet._

_Mere seconds ago that boy, Craig Donovan, had been screaming profanities in his face, cursing at him with violent threats- but now, he no longer said a word. Calmness._

_Donovan laid beneath him now. It was finally silent, at least for a moment._

_The once faint sound of sirens drew closer and closer. He forced himself off of his knees and grabbed his bat from the ground. The field’s dirt stuck to the thick red splotches that covered the barrel of the bat. A crude mixture of mud, dirt, and dried crusted blood had splattered across his white baseball uniform. It would be permanently stained. The stench that lingered on it was acrid and awful, too; he didn’t care enough to clean it off, though. He was exhausted. He just wanted to go home._

_Ma was waiting for him to come home._

_As he wobbled towards the field’s exit, the police cars finally arrived. They turned into the stadium lot and skid to a screeching stop directly in front of him. They stepped out of their vehicles, guns in hand; with no hesitation, they aimed._

_“Put your hands up!” One officer shouted. “We don’t wanna shoot you, son!”_

_Donovan’s friends must have told them, he assumed. And more than likely, they lied about what had happened, too._

_Jerks are like that._

_He dropped his bat and held his hands behind his head._

_“Jeremy?” The officer called to him._

_He wanted to scream until his throat bled._

_“Jeremy Delacroix?”_

_He wanted to vomit out his lungs onto the pavement._

_Inside, something shattered. Confidence? Composure? The last remaining fuck he gave for anything?_

_Whatever it was, he was only able to gather a few words from it's broken pieces, and as the officers approached him, he screamed:_

_“Tell my Ma I did it for her!”_

  
🜚

Boston Police Department

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

June 16th, 1968.

9:05 AM

“Jeremy Delacroix?”

Jeremy sat still in an uncomfortable chair, staring blankly at the walls of the dark square room. His hands were cuffed and resting on the interrogation table, reminiscent of those he had in his high school lunchroom. At the very least, the red jumpsuit was comfortable. The officer sitting across from him was a rather stout man, mustached and seemingly friendly. He had a small recorder nearby. The officer had pressed the "start" button moments ago.

“It’s pronounced _Dell-Lah-Croy_ , sir.” Jeremy responded.

The officer nodded. “Right. I apologize.”

“It’s nothing. You’re not da first I’ve had to correct about dat.” 

“I’m sure.” The officer said. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?’

Jeremy remained quiet and stared holes into the wall.

The officer awaited a response. When Jeremy didn’t say a word, he continued, “...The two boys that arrived at the department last night said you attacked Craig Donovan, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you attack him, Jeremy?”

“He threatened me.”

“Did he touch you first?”

“He shoved me, yeah.”

The officer tapped his fingers together, then sighed. “Okay, Jeremy you’re gonna have to be more specific. _What_ happened last night?”

“I told ya, sir, Donovan shoved me an’ I defended myself.”

The officer raised a brow. “You beat a kid’s head in with a baseball bat. That’s not self-defense, son, that’s pure rage.”

“Yes sir, it was.”

Stressed, the officer pinched between his brows. “ Look, Jeremy- I don’t think you’re a- a- a psychopath or anything- I saw you at games and in- in the papers. Teachers bragged about you, son, you’re a good kid!” He searched for the right words. “I think Craig- I think you were set off, okay? And if you tell me what happened, I can help you, alright?”

Jeremy stiffened. Tension built in his throat, he struggled to swallow it down. Would this cop really believe his story? Would he be let off for this?

The teachers only know one side of Jeremy’s life, they don’t _know_ him, and neither does this stupid cop. Did he even know about the things he had to do when he left the campus? Did he even know about his living situation _at this very moment?_

  
  


“Jeremy, I can help you. Please talk to me.”

_Could you?_

But in the officer’s words, Jeremy felt comfort. If he did explain, maybe Donovan’s stupid friends will get sent to the slammer, and he’d be spared the charges. Maybe.

Jeremy broke his stare from the wall and focused on the officer. “...Craig Donovan never liked me, sir.” Jeremy began. “Ever since we were jus’ little kids, he always wanted t’ have somethin’ over me, ya know? He wanted t’ be better than me.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, sir, I could never figure out why. I guess it may be some kinda personal thing or somethin’.” Jeremy shrugged. “Anyway, when we were older, we both tried out for baseball, ‘cause we liked it, an’ we both got in. But da thing was, I was picked by interest for Major League. Donovan wasn’t. An’ Donovan didn’t like dat.”

“He became jealous of you.”

“Yes sir, an’ it was bad. To da point where he was comin’ to my house an’ throwin’ things at my windows ‘n shit.” 

“You never contacted the police then?”

Jeremy shrugged. “No sir, my ma said it wasn’t dat big of a deal. I guess she didin’ think it would get any worse. Besides, where I live, da police wouldn’t have done anythin’ anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I live in the Rox, sir. The shitty part of Boston. Anyway, dat’s beside da point. Donovan hated my guts, an’ every day at school he’d harass me on the way to class. I just took it, an’ expected him t’ jus’ get tired an’ leave me alone.” Jeremy paused. “...But he didn’. It just kept going, and he kept getting more and more… brave with his act towards me.”

The officer waited for Jeremy to continue, but the boy held his tongue. Jeremy tapped his heel against the ground and interlocked his fingers.

“Jeremy?”

Jeremy’s stomach turned. “He- He started tryin’ t’ pick fights with me while I’m goin’ home. He’d follow me, scream at me an’ shove me. ...I think he was stalkin’ me, too. ‘C- ‘Cause he’d figure things out about me. Things I didn’ want anyone t’ know about.”

The officer sighed. “Jeremy, this… You should have-”

Abruptly, Jeremy slammed his fists onto the table. “I _know_ what I shoulda done! But I couldn’! I couldn’ because-! Because-!” _‘Cause Ma would get in trouble._ “...Cause I was embarrassed…”

“What were you embarrassed about?”

“...My house.”

“Why-”

With a subtle growl, Jeremy quickly cut off the officer and changed the subject. “Look, that don’ matter. What matters is why I beat Donavan’s fucking skull in, right? That’s what ya wanna know, right?”

The officer waved his hand. “Please calm yourself, son. And yes, that’s what we need to know.”

But Jeremy couldn’t hold it. The shards of his shattered cognizance were still inside him, and they stabbed every nerve in his body. “I was on da field practicing last night, and he tracked me down there. He brought two friends with him, and he said all’a them were gonna beat me unconscious. But before he did, he started running his fucking mouth, sayin’ me an’ my family were nothing but white trash, livin’ in filth in da Rox. He said that my brothers Johnny and Henry deserved to die in Vietnam. He said that my mother was a drunkie, a nasty tramp, and-” Jeremy gritted his teeth. “An’ he was gonna take her while she was knocked out.”

The officer’s eyes widened. “He… He threatened to rape your mother?”

“An’ knowin’ his sick ass, I wouldn’ put it past him. I had t’ shut him up. I had t’ show him I wasn’ gonna take it anymore.”

The officer shook his head. “Jeremy, did- did you mean to kill Craig Donovan? Or only rough him up a bit?”

“No, sir.”

“No, as in you didn’t-?”

“No sir, I meant t’ kill him. I meant every swing.”

  
  


🜚

After the interrogation, Jeremy was sent back to his cell. To Jeremy, it didn’t appear much different than the previous room. Cold, dark walls. Uncomfortable chairs. Jeremy wondered if his mother was outside waiting for him, or if the officers told her she couldn’t see him. Would they allow her to see him? Would they prevent a mother from seeing her son? 

Before he’s sent off to federal prison, the only person he wants to see is her. Even better, hug her one last time. 

If just to let her know she didn’t fail as a mother.

Lord knows if she did, he wouldn’t be here right now.

“Delacroix?”

Jeremy gazed up at the sound of his name. An officer approached him.

“A woman is here to see you.” He said.

Footsteps approached the cell, and a light feeling of hope filled Jeremy’s chest. He quickly stood up and rushed to the bars.

“Ma-!”

But all sudden happiness crashed when Jeremy saw the woman, who was definitely not his mother. She was dark-haired, green-eyed, and much younger than his mother. She wore a white coat, cateye glasses, held a clipboard in her hand, and a black bag over her shoulder. Jeremy did not recognize this woman at all.

“Jeremy Delacroix?” She asked. 

Jeremy furrowed his brows. “Um, Obviously.” He spoke sourly. “Who the hell-!”

The woman laughed. “He’s a little confused.” She turned to the officer. “I’m his nurse, you see. He’s under my care.”

“W- What?” Jeremy sputtered. “Sh-She’s not- I don’ even know who this bitch-!”

The officer turned to the small woman and opened his mouth to speak, but the woman quickly slapped her hand over his lips and grabbed a handful of cash from her bag; hundred dollar bills in stacks.

“I’m. His. Nurse.” She whispered.

The officer nodded and unlocked the door.

Jeremy stood, silent with disbelief and absolute awe.

🜚


	4. Cindy, You're A Fine Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He came on a summer's day  
> Bringin' gifts from far away  
> But he made it clear he couldn't stay  
> No harbor was his home"
> 
> \- Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) by Looking Glass
> 
> Next: Meet The Soldier

Boston, Massachusetts, USA.

June 16th, 1968.

9:20 AM

_“I’m his nurse.”_ She had said. _“He’s under my care.”_

Those words swarmed Jeremy’s mind as he and that mysterious woman quickly exited the police station. Despite her small frame, she held a strong grip on Jeremy’s wrist and tugged him along. She led him down the block and took a right at the cornerstore. 

_Why did she say that,_ Jeremy wondered. _Who was she?_

_And why did she just save him from life in federal prison?_

“Hey, hold on a minute!” Jeremy stumbled as he followed behind, pulling his wrist from her grip. “You think I’m jus’ gonna stroll on with someone I don’ know? I need answers, lady!”

The young woman continued walking and responded, “I expected that. Ask me anything.”

“Wh- Look chick, I don’ know who da hell you are, but you better start tellin’ me before I start runnin’. An’ don’ expect t’ catch me, because I’m the fastes’ runner on my school’s track team, with trophies t’ prove it!”

“I’m aware.”

“An’ I am da best player on my school’s baseball team, so if I have t’ defen’ myself, I will-!”

“I am well aware of your skill, Mr. Delacroix.”

Jeremy raised a brow. “How- Hey, don’ call me dat! It makes me soun’ old.”

“Do you want me to call you Jeremy?”

“Um, obviously!”

“Alright then.” 

After a few minutes of walking in awkward silence, the two of them were now in what people referred to as Boston’s “food district”, because of all the restaurants. Jeremy had always thought it was stupid to build so many restaurants in the same area, because people would spend more time arguing about where to eat than _actually_ eating. Jeremy smiled at the thought of all the times he and his mother would fuss about which diner they should have lunch in. 

She’d say, _“Chinese? You always want Chinese, hunny! Try something different!”_

Any other time, he’d be annoyed with her. But right now, he wished she was here, and they were arguing over lunch… instead of outrunning the law with a girl he didn’t know anything about.

Suddenly the woman began to slow her pace. Jeremy turned his attention to her as she looked down at her watch, squinted, then came to a stop in front of a small coffee house. She approached a two-seater round table outside the shop and pulled out a chair.

“We have some time to spare.” She said. “Sit down.”

“Uh, alright.”

Jeremy took a seat, but didn’t tear his eyes from her. Nothing about this situation felt right to him at all. This woman, she was so… direct- but then again, not so direct at the same time. Jeremy struggled to comprehend it. 

“So, normally I’d save questions for when we’ve reached the Fortress, but you seem reluctant to go anywhere with me until you’ve been given clarity.” The woman interlocked her fingers and smiled. “What would you like to know, Jeremy?”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, jus’ tell me ya damn name already! We’ve been walkin’ togetha for like thirty minutes an’ I don’ even know ya name, lady! Shouldn’ dat be da first thing ya say to someone new?”

“My name is Felicia Pauling. But because of our professional relationship, please call me Ms. Pauling.”

“Professional… relationship.” Jeremy rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. “Yeah, look, I am not gonna sit here an’ ask a million questions, jus’ tell me what da hell is going on before I make a run for it, la- ...Ms. Paulin’.”

“If you run, the police will eventually catch up to you, and you will go back to jail- then inevitably spend life in prison.” Ms. Pauling leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “But if you come with me, I can make every trace of that night disappear.”

Jeremy’s brows raised. “Wait- really?”

“Craig Donovan was in a fatal accident.” She smirked. “Jeremy Delacroix was never there.”

There it was, he felt it creeping up his spine again; the suspicion and doubt. Nothing about this situation felt right to him at all, but Jeremy couldn’t help his interest. Ms. Pauling managed to bribe a cop into letting him, a murderer, out of jail, _and_ she can cover up the crime that put him there in the first place, or so she says. 

But Jeremy wasn’t an idiot. There is no way that something like this didn’t come with a catch. He was raised to know that some things are far too good to be true, and way too easy to be free. Everything has a price.

So what was hers?

Jeremy shook his head. “Nah, nah. There’s no way you’d jus’ do this for some random guy. Whadaya want from me?”

“I’m glad you finally asked.” Ms. Pauling smiled. “I work for TF. Industries, a company out of Spokane. We specialize in advanced technological weapons development for the United States military. Additionally, we have a branch company, Mann Co., and two pocket companies, RED and BLU. Partnership with Mann Co. allows us funding and enterprise. RED and BLU give us space and… resources.”

“Wait,” Jeremy raised a brow. “Don’ RED and BLU collect… gravel? Like gravel mines out in the west an’ shit?”

Ms. Pauling chuckled “As far as the public knows, yes.”

“So, they’re not actually mining gravel.”

“Well they are, and the gravel is sent to be used for infrastructure. But that’s not the main purpose of the mines.”

“So what is the “main purpose”?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’ve told me everything else. What if I walk off with dis information?”

At that, Ms. Pauling smirked and cocked a brow. “You won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You haven’t left yet. And you know what will happen if you do.”

Jeremy scoffed, leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “Right, whatever. But what does any of your big business bullshit have to do with me?”

“You may know that RED and BLU are rather competitive.” Ms. Pauling explained. “They have been ever since the beginning of their existence. Over the years, their competition has only gotten stronger. Both RED and BLU are developing new tools to aid them in their rivalry against each other, and RED is in need of a few men who are willing to test out those tools.”

“Tools as in..?”

“Weapons, technological devices, that sort of thing.”

“So ya want me ta jus’… play with toys an’ tell ya if it works?”

“You’ll be assigned a class and a specific set of weapons. RED has land from New Mexico up into Nevada, Colorado, and California, so your station will routinely change. With your team, you’ll have to guard and defend RED’s ground against BLU’s men, as they surely will come and try to destroy RED’s fortresses.” She chuckled. “I suppose it does sound like a game, doesn’t it? If that’s how you see it.”

Jeremy furrowed his brows. “War, more like! If you’re sendin’ me out into a war, I’ll pass. I’ve seen what war does t’ people, an’ I don’ feel like dyin’. Let me do da toy review.”

“You won’t die. We have a respawn system. On your first day, you’ll be sent into a bio-scanner that will copy your genetic code. If you die, your body will be teleported back to the respawn system and reassembled. Good as new, and nothing lost.”

At a loss for words, Jeremy sat silently, and stared at Ms. Pauling, mouth agape. 

Ms. Pauling smiled. “Yeah, that was my reaction whenever I first heard of it, too. Crazy, isn’t it?”

Jeremy scowled. “If ya have some insane machine like dat, what kind of freaky dangerous weapons do ya got, and tryin’ to get people ta fuck with? I’d die before I even get out there fightin’! Look Ms. Paulin’, there’s gotta be-”

“Well, you’ll be paid 1,000 dollars a week. Does that sound like it’s worth the trouble?”

“-Somethin’ else ya can- wait, what?”

“One grand a week.” Ms. Pauling nodded. 

“Dat’s-” Jeremy laughed, “Dat’s crazy, there’s no way.”

“I thought so too, but that’s what they’re offering.”

Jeremy looked down. “One grand…” he repeated in a whisper.

_If I go for about 6 months,_ Jeremy began to think, _I can move ma into a house, outta Roxbury, someplace nicer, and after a few more months..._

It was definitely tempting. But was it worth the possibility of death? Sure they may have all this fancy technology, but technology is just like the humans that made it, prone to error. There’s no guarantee for perfection, but a definite possibility for fault. It can and will fail eventually. And even if it doesn’t, he’ll still have to endure the pain of death, despite not truly dying.

_Was it worth it?_

“Everything alright, Jeremy?” Ms. Pauling leaned a bit closer.

_Of course it was._

Jeremy looked up, exhaling quietly. “I’ll… Alright, I’ll do it.”

A wide grin spread across Ms. Pauling’s face. “Good! Alright, we’ll head to-”

“But I want to see my ma before we go anywhere.”

She paused. “Um, well, there are risks with that- if you’re caught, you know. We’re already taking chances sitting here right now-”

“Ms. Paulin’, either you take me to see my ma or I’m leaving state.”

🜚

Roxbury

Boston, Massachusettes, USA.

June 12th, 1968.

9:10 AM

Cindy Everett always had big dreams. To make it in the world, live like a queen in the sunshine state, become a celebrity; it was everything she ever wanted… but nothing she could have. At least, not anymore. Seventeen years ago, her life had fallen apart, and only continues to spiral into hell, disintegrating her once lovely home into a cold and dismal chamber she can’t escape from. Her eight beautiful boys, the lights of her life, were pinning her to this earth. But now, the world's darkness had begun to overtake them.

Her eldest sons, Tommy and Henry, were drafted and killed in Vietnam. They weren't the first children to be taken, and they certainly wouldn't be the last.

Eddie had died of a drug overdose, pushing heroine with the other misguided youths in Roxbury. It's a shame this fate has become so common.

Mikey had ran away quite some time ago, and was declared missing for almost two years. Cindy hated to admit that she was tempted to stop waiting for him to come home.

Now her youngest, her lovely Jeremy, has been arrested for first-degree murder.

The worst part, Cindy knew, wasn't that Jeremy had killed anyone, but that she wasn't surprised about it at all. She didn't gasp or wail, or fight her way into the police station to protest. Cindy listened; she took it all in, everything her sweet Jeremy had done. He killed that boy, brutally, bludgeoned him with his baseball bat, cracked his head open and smashed his brain into mush on the concrete of the stadium's parking lot.

Jeremy, her own son, had committed such a violent murder, and Cindy acted as if she's heard it all before. She felt disgusted with herself, but she couldn't fight it. A part of her always knew that Jeremy would succumb to this world's evils one day. Everyone had; even herself, a long, long time ago.

She had drank through her last bottle of brandy, the final of 4 in the last 2 hours. The windows were covered with thick curtains, shielding the afternoon sun from her house. Drunken sobs filled the dining room as Cindy slouched over the table, laying her head in her hands. Her brain rattled and shook with regret that, despite being mostly flushed away, persisted to trouble her. _What did you do so wrong,_ it said. _What would cause God to punish you this way?_

A few hours ago, Edith had called, having heard the news about Jeremy. They talked for about an hour, Edith herself doing most of the speaking. She always attempted to give Cindy comfort in times like these. She knew of Cindy’s self-degrading nature, and tried her best to prevent it from happening. After Tommy and Henry’s funeral, Edith had stayed over at Cindy’s house for a while, doing her best to prevent her from doing anything absurd. She always tried to give Cindy a shoulder to lean on, so she wouldn’t try to find comfort in something regrettable.

She tried to keep her from the bottle. She knew it was the most destructive thing in Cindy’s life.

_“That stuff don’ help you, Cindy. It ain’t gonna make nothin’ go away.”_

Her words didn’t work this time. They may never work again.

Suddenly, the phone began to ring again. Its loud bell tone sounded horrid to Cindy’s ears. She weakly brought her hands to her ears and pressed, firmly blocking the noise. After a minute or so, it finally ended. As the room fell silent once more, Cindy allowed her consciousness to slip away, and descend into a deep, dark sleep.

  
  


🜚

“We can’t stay long.”

“I jus’ wanna tell her goodbye.”

As Jeremy hopped up the steps to his house, Ms. Pauling crossed her arms and waited on the corner of the block. She routinely glanced in all directions, looking out for any black and white vehicles, listening for any sirens. They’re already running late. The last thing she needs is any more interference.

Jeremy quickly knocked on the door, and stepped back. After a few moments of no response, he knocked again. Nothing. He glanced in either direction, hoping to see his mother walking up any second, but-

“Jeremy?”

Jeremy quickly turned around, and his eyes met with the stout figure of a young black boy around his age. He smiled. “Terry! Man, ya jus’ the guy I needed t’ see!”

The boy reached out for a hug and said, “Whatcha doin’ here, Jerry? Ain’t ya been in da slammer?”

Jeremy quickly wrapped his arms around the other boy, pulling him into a short hug and releasing him to respond. “Yeah, I was.. but it was cut short.”

“Why’s dat?” Terry asked.

“I don’ really have time t’ explain. Have ya seen my Ma? I need t’ tell her goodbye.”

Terry’s eyes suddenly grew big. “... _“Bye”?_ Whadaya mean _“bye”?_ Where ya goin’, Jerry?”

“I can’t- I can’t explain, okay? I jus’ need t’ see my Ma.” 

Jeremy glanced over Terry’s shoulder to Ms. Pauling, who stared him in the eyes and began tapping her watch.

“Well alright.” Terry looked towards the house. “My mama jus’ got off da phone with Mama Cindy a few hours ago. She tried t’ call again but Mama Cindy didn’ answer, so my mama sent me over to see what was goin’ on.” Terry dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key. “She gave me the key Mama Cindy lent her, in case she didin’ answer.”

🜚

The door creaked open into the dimly lit house, and the acrid stench of alcohol irritated the noses of the boys as they stepped in. Terry followed behind Jeremy as they moved in towards the dining room. Suddenly, Jeremy’s expression fell from worried to solemn, as his eyes fell onto his mother’s sleeping body. Bottles of brandy lay scattered across the table she rested on. Jeremy closed his eyes, and let out a pained sigh. He had hoped to walk upon something different.

“Is Mama Cindy gonna be alright, Jerry?” Terry whispered.

Jeremy didn’t know what to say.

He quietly walked towards his mother, and slightly lifted her into an embrace. Cindy moved slightly, mumbling something under her breath. 

“M- Ma,” Jeremy shakily whispered. “Ma, I’m gonna be away for a while.”

Cindy continued to mutter, but her words weren’t comprehensible.

“I don’ know when I’ll be back, ...but I’ll try t’ keep up with ya.” Heavy tears began welling in Jeremy’s eyes, but he did his best to choke down the sobs. “I jus’... I jus’ wanted to come tell ya I love ya before I left, ma. But I don’ know if ya can understan’ what I’m sayin’.”

Murmurs only fell from Cindy’s lips. Jeremy finally allowed the tears to drop from his eyes as his mother failed to respond to him. 

“I hate it when ya do dis, ma...” Jeremy wept. “Ya know I do…” 

Lifting her bridal style, Jeremy carried his mother from the dining room table to her bedroom. He gently placed her into bed, and quietly closed the door behind him when he left. With Terry following him down the hall, Jeremy opened the door into his room. His eyes followed the line of baseball trophies on the shelves, posters and school banners pinned to the walls, and a few family photos decorated his desk. Jeremy quickly grabbed his backpack from off of his floor and began stuffing it with clothes and a few other miscellaneous items. 

Suddenly, Jeremy paused. Underneath the clothes in his drawer, something caught his eye.

It was a black and white photograph. One of a man and a baby. Jeremy slightly shuddered at the memory. Several years ago when his mother went through an aggressive meltdown, she had thrown the photograph against the wall and shattered the frame. She intended to throw it away, having buried it beneath other busted ceramics, but young Jeremy snuck into the kitchen and grabbed it without her knowledge. 

He knows the baby is him, and the man is his father. At least, he firmly believes so. He knew he and his brothers did not have the same father; they couldn't. Each of them looked a little different from one another, a little _too_ different. Blonde hair, black hair, brown hair- hell, Eddie's hair was fox red! Blue eyes, brown eyes, green and gray... Jeremy wanted to know who his father was. He believed the photo was a step in the right direction. He quickly took the photo, placed it in his backpack and sprinted out of the house.

🜚

  
  


“So you don’ know how long you’ll be gone, Jerry?”

“Nope. All I can say is, I’ll find ya when I get back.”

“Ya better.” Terry laughed. “We ain’t got nobody who can run or play like ya, Jerry. We’re probably gonna lose every game after this!”

Jeremy's tone became rather cocky. “Hah, there’s no way they can survive without me, but uh, they can try.” He smirked.

Terry’s expression fell to a frown. “Man, I’m gonna miss ya Jerry. Wherever you’re goin’, jus’ stay safe, aight?”

“Heh, I’ll try. An’ watch out for my ma, okay?” 

“You don’ gotta worry, me and my mama are lookin’ out for Mama Cindy.”

Jeremy patted Terry’s back and waved goodbye, one last time. 

🜚

Jeremy quickly rushed down the block, running back to Ms. Pauling, who had been patiently waiting for him to return from his house. He quickly skidded to a stop once he finally spotted her, and her… very expensive-looking car. A sleek cyan Nova, shiny and perfectly polished as if it had just been bought that day. 

“Um, nice wheels Ms. Paulin’.” 

“Thanks. It’s only temporary.” She responded as she entered the driver’s seat.

Jeremy opened the door and entered the passenger’s side. “Do they jus’ give out free cars like this all da time?”

“Whenever they’re needed, yeah.”

Jeremy huffed. “I wanna free car.”

Ms. Pauling chuckled as she placed the key in the ignition and turned it. “Do you have a license, Jeremy?”

“Um, no, but I do know how t’ drive. I jus’ never went t’ da DMV.”

“Hm. So, that boy. He’s your friend?”

“Yeah. Terry an’ I have been friends since we were little.”

“Did you ever get into any trouble for that?”

Jeremy raised a brow. “Trouble? No, Terry was a good kid.”

“I’m not talking about behavior, Jeremy. When you were growing up, I’m sure some people weren’t too fond of a white child and a black child playing together.”

“We grew up neighbors, in a shitty neighborhood with some shitty people. Terry an’ I have pretty much everything in common, da only difference is the color of our skin.” Jeremy scoffed. “Ms. Paulin’, where I’m from, what race we were hangin’ with was da least of our problems. Most people didin’ give a shit. I mean yeah, when we got older an’ started goin’ into restaurants an’ stuff, yeah, some people would stare at us eatin’ together, but it wasn’ like we gave a damn. We had more things to worry about than what other people thought.”

Ms. Pauling nodded as she watched the road. 

“Anyway,” Jeremy continued. “Why do you ask?”

“Well a couple of your teammates aren’t from this country, and I wanted to make sure that wouldn’t be an issue.”

“I don’ care where they’re from, as long as they’re not weird or assholes. Or weird assholes.”

Ms. Pauling chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure about that.”

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned above, the chapter title is a reference to the hit song "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass, released in 1972.


	5. Meet: The Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter. 
> 
> Since the details of Ms. Pauling's mission have already been established in the previous chapters, that will be removed from the future "Meet The..." chapters, and instead focus on the characters themselves.
> 
> Next: Meet the Pyro
> 
> EDIT: (April 14th, 2020) Rick May, Soldier's Voice Actor, has passed away. Rest in Peace. ❤
> 
> EDIT 11/21/20: Profile shots at the end.

_December 31st, 1944._

_It was an awful overcast. Thick clouds covered the sun, and snow littered the ground in dense blankets of pure cold white. On December 16th, German forces launched a surprise attack on Belgium, marching through the Ardennes forests, aiming to take over the city of Antwerp. The Allied forces controlled its ports at the time, and the Germans wanted it for its strategic value. They had moved quietly through the fog. Nobody knew what happened until it was almost too late. Days of Allied efforts seemed to be in vain; the Germans were pushing, and they were pushing hard._

_He can’t recall how long he’s been waiting here, but his fingers and toes were nearly frozen solid, and his nose and cheeks were flushed pink from the icy wind. He, along with a squad of other soldiers, were holding an Allied line against German forces in northeastern France. Although they had been victorious so far, several men have been gunned down, and worse..._

_They were running low on supplies. There simply wasn’t enough to sustain these men much longer._

_He had watched his fellow soldiers suffer and bleed out into the snow. He had heard their whispers; their final wishes, their prayers to God…_

_"Doe… Hey, Doe....”_

_He turned to Strummer, a long-time friend, who was sitting next to him in the barricade._

_“Do you think we’ll win? After all this failure?”_

_“...Have faith, Strummer.” He rasped. “It’s all we have.”_

_“I do,” Strummer whispered. “I pray every day, Doe.”_

_“I know. I do too.” Doe replied quietly._

_Strummer rubbed his gloved hands together. “It’s so damn cold here, Doe.” He shivered and adjusted his helmet over his blonde hair. “I’m becoming an icicle.”_

_Doe pulled his bag through the thick snow and sat it next to him. He opened it and pulled out a large decorated blanket, then threw it over both of their shoulders._

_Strummer laughed as he pulled the blanket around himself. “Where did you get this?”_

_“A nurse in Wallonia gave it to me.” Doe replied._

_“Are you even supposed to have it?”_

_“Probably not.”_

_Strummer scooted closer to Doe, wrapping the blanket closer around the two of them. Within a few minutes, both soldiers were comforted with the coziness of warmth._

_Then, the unmistakable sound of rapid gunfire erupted nearby and drew closer far too quickly._

_“Strummer!”_

🜚

Canton, Ohio, USA.

June 5th, 1968.

8:05 AM

6 bottles. 6 bottles of medication, and he has to take them every single day. Some, multiple times a day. It made no sense. According to the doctors, he _needs_ them. They _help_ him. Without them, he wouldn’t be able to function properly. He would be dangerous, self-destructive and deadly. 

He wouldn’t know any different. He’s never been off of the medication long enough to see the effects. The last thing he needs is another reason to be watched, anyway.

On a shelf in his bedroom sat a glass case holding a variety of medals, arcs and ribbons. Next to the case was his framed honorable discharge certificate. 

_“This is to certify that First Sergeant Janek Doe was honorably discharged from the Army of the United States.”_

He remembers it all very clearly. General Morrissey told him that he couldn’t return to the military because he wasn’t “mentally sound” anymore. He showed signs of paranoia, aggression, had frequent mood swings. Of course, at the time, doctors couldn’t really diagnose him with what they didn’t understand. They just knew something was wrong, and keeping him in service may have its consequences, so they let him go.

_“What happened in France ruined you_ , _”_ Morrissey had said. _“You just aren’t the same, Janek._ _You’re not being discharged because you did anything wrong_. _”_

But it sure as hell felt like it.

Janek didn’t want to be discharged. He enjoyed serving his country, no matter the struggle he had. Truthfully, not all of his memories of his time in the army were bad. He made many friends, some he still talks to even after his discharge. Spending time with them was all he really needed to keep him going.

_“You’re a good one, Jane.”_ They would say. _“One of the best.”_

It was one of Janek’s favorite memories. The “k” at the end of his first name on his award plaque had scuffed away, so instead of _“Janek Doe”_ it read _“Jane Doe,”_ thus creating an inside joke among his friends.

Janek still thought about them, especially the ones he lost contact with. Where were they now? What were they doing? Did they think about him, too?

With that last thought, Janek swallowed the last pill and exited his bedroom. In the living room, the morning news played on TV. Same shit, different day; protests about Vietnam, hippies gathering in places they shouldn’t be and interfering with everyone’s daily lives, inevitable drug epidemics, blah blah blah...

It was all just static to Janek, anyway… until the newswoman brought up breaking news,

“Senator Robert F. Kennedy was shot in an attempted assassination….”

Well, that’s something different.

Janek began to walk closer to the TV when a sudden knock repeatedly thumped against his front door. With a heavy sigh, Janek stepped to the door and unlocked it. On the other side, he expected either a nurse coming for a checkup session or a coworker waiting to tell him that he had to come in for work today.

It was neither.

“Mr. Janek Doe?”

His disturber was, in fact, a tiny black-haired woman in a lavender dress suit, bearing a black bag and a handful of papers. Odd.

“That’s me,” Janek replied rather sourly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Felicia Pauling. I’m a recruiter- wait!”

Ms. Pauling quickly grabbed the frame to stop him from closing the door.

Janek leaned down to Ms. Pauling’s eye level, and threatened, “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling lady, so please get off my property before I make you.” 

Janek Doe was a large man. Nearly 6 foot in height, he was around 180 pounds, full of muscle and could easily snap Ms. Pauling like a toothpick. As a warning. But Ms. Pauling wasn’t so sure if he would.

“Please, Mr. Doe. Just give me five minutes.”

After a moment, Janek moved from the doorway. “Five minutes.”

🜚

Ms. Pauling took a seat on the sofa across from Janek. “I understand you’re a World War Two veteran.” She said.

“Yes, why?”

“Well, I’m looking for someone with your skill.”

“Why?”

“Let’s skip the minor details, okay? I mean, you only gave me five minutes to speak.” 

“If you need longer, then it’s not worth my time.”

“Well- Here,” Ms. Pauling handed a packet to him. “This tells you everything.”

Janek took the packet from her and skimmed through it. According to the papers, this woman worked for TF. Industries, out of Spokane, Washington. Janek recognized this name. This company provided quite a few weapons and tools for the military.

Ms. Pauling cleared her throat. “Since you were in the second World War, you may be familiar with our work-”

Janek held up his hand. Ms. Pauling silenced herself.

“RED needs men to help defend their land against their rivaling company.” Janek looked up from the paper. “You want me to go fight, with other men, against other men, for one of your puppet companies?”

Ms. Pauling nodded. “Well, I wouldn’t say it that way, but yes.”

“And I get paid in hundreds? A grand a week?”

“Yes. Isn’t that great? Well worth what you’re giving, I’d say.”

Janek looked back down to the paper, then handed it back to her. “Where do I sign up?”

Ms. Pauling smiled and stood up, adjusted her suit. “We do all the other tedious stuff once we reach your Fortress.” She stepped towards the door. “Grab whatever you want to take then meet me outside.”

Janek watched her as she left. He then turned and looked at the TV.

Same shit, different day.

It was past time for something new.

...Something familiar that he’s wanted for a long time.

  
  


🜚


	6. Meet: The Pyro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As stated before, the "Meet The..." chapters will be rather short. Once the character introductions are done, the actual storyline will begin.
> 
> Next: Meet the Demoman

_Smoldering embers smelt tangily sweet, like cinnamon and peppermints to his nose. The fires flickered vividly, emitting stunning bright colors upon his eyes. Screams became laughter to his ears as the flames seared his skin. He felt no pain, only a soft tickling like that of flower petals brushing against his body._

_His house was now something of a fairytale. It was finally home._

_But his creation was not so beautiful to others. Two police officers had seized his arms, snatching the box of matches from his hands and forcing him to the ground. They could not see what he did. They couldn’t understand. They had no clue._

_He had to show them._

_Anger boiled inside. He fought against their rugged grasp. Struggling, he managed to snake his arm into his jacket pocket and pulled out his silver flask. Quickly he pushed them away, and splashed much of the whiskey onto the officers then kicked a burning stick towards them. Within seconds, the two officers burst into flames._

_Could they see, now? Could they see the beauty of destruction?_

_Could it change them as it had changed him?_

  
  


🜚

  
  


Newcastle Mental Asylum

Newcastle, Tyne & Wear, England

June 8th, 1968

11:50 AM

In each frame was a photograph of a familiar figure. Puppies, kittens, flowers, birds, rainbows… Bright pretty colors that brought a close feeling of happiness. Among those, however, there were other pictures that didn’t bring the same pleasant feeling. There was one of his mother, one of his father, one of Jesus Christ... The pictures were constant reminders of who he was. As the pale-coated men had said, he was a psychotic arsonist, a murderer, and looking for redemption. He was brought here to assure that.

It wasn’t all that bad. In fact, he liked it here, in the institution. The stark white walls were the skies of heaven. The bright clean floors were the clouds. 

And Ms. Abbey was an angel.

He adored her. Ms. Abbey was a true light in his life. Each day, she would come and bring him into her office. They would play the picture game or draw or paint. He would draw pictures for Ms. Abbey, and she would keep them on her wall. 

_“You’re a wonderful artist, Angel. Terrific work today.”_

When he was back in his room, he would draw pictures of Ms. Abbey too, and keep them in his box along with his other sentimental items. Though he knew it was wrong, sometimes he would take Ms. Abbey’s things. Small things though, things that weren’t that important; barrettes, hair ties, things such as that. He kept them in his box, too.

Sometimes she gave him things. One day she noticed that he was eyeing her little pink flowery handbag, and she asked if he wanted it. He nodded. She smiled and removed her items from it, and handed it to him. It smelled like her perfume.

_“If you want something, all you have to do is ask, Angel.”_

Ms. Abbey would come and bring him his halo for “mental therapy”. When she did, he loved the feeling of her soft hands on his face. And when she would come to take it away, he cherished that, too. Ms. Abbey’s touch was soft, like the fluffy fur of a kitten. It was rather comforting, like her voice, too. It was delicate, sweet, and gentle. She always spoke such nice words to him, never yelling or swearing. He often wondered what it would be like, if Ms. Abbey were to whisper those nice things to him. How much softer could her lovely voice get? 

He loved her pale skin, her bright red hair that was tied back in a bun, her slender legs in those sheer stockings, her pretty white uniform, and her big blue eyes. She didn't wear much makeup aside from lipstick. He knew she didn't need to. To him, she was already beautiful.

At night, he had wonderful dreams about Ms. Abbey. He fantasized about what it would be like to kiss her red lips, to touch her, make love to her, hold her close and tell her everything he wouldn’t say before. It was inappropriate, he knew. He saw other patients get in trouble for trying to engage with their nurses. It wasn’t “professional.”

There’s no harm in dreaming though, right?

Ms. Abbey was _his nurse_ . She was assigned _to him_ and cared only _for him_.

It was almost like destiny, similar to those fairytales he loved so much.

In his room, Angel laid on his bed and held his favorite photo of Ms. Abby in his hands. During the Christmas celebration last year, she had allowed him to take it with her camera. It was a portrait, from the shoulders up. Angel’s mind began to wander, wondering just what Ms. Abby looked like under that-

With a loud ding, as the clock struck noon, a bell rang over the intercom. It was time for lunch.

  
  


🜚

Newcastle Mental Asylum, Newcastle, England

June 8th, 1968

12:10 AM

“In 1957, a manor was set aflame in Glasgow, Scotland. The arsonist was a young boy, aged 14, Angel Faulkner. His parents were killed in the fire, along with two officers who tried to restrain him. When they finally took him in, the interrogators deemed him insane and sent him to your medical facility here in Newcastle.” The woman handed the stack of papers to the doctor, brushing her curly blonde strands out of her face. “I’m Ms. Joana Smith, and I’m here to transport him to the Geneva Mental Health Facility in New York.”

The doctor thought for a moment. “Ah, yes. We expected your arrival. Your advisor contacted us a few days earlier. I’m Dr. Cook.” He motioned for Ms. Smith to follow. “Come now. Right this way, madame.”

Newcastle’s Asylum was a rather elaborately constructed building. The inside was no exception. As Dr. Cook led Ms. Smith down the hall, she noticed that the asylum was almost like a church, with all the Christian imagery and Germanic-Greco-Roman hybrid architecture. Perhaps the symbolism was a comfort to the patients. Maybe it gave them a sense of hope.

“The patients are all in the cafeteria for lunch at the moment.” said Dr. Cook.

Around a corner, they turned to a set of large double-doors, opened and leading to the cafeteria. Dr. Cook called over a red-haired nurse who was standing outside the room. 

“This is Ms. Abbey.” Dr. Cook introduced her. “She is Angel’s nurse.”

“‘Ello.” Ms. Abbey greeted. 

Ms. Smith waved. “Good to meet you, Ms. Abbey. I’m Ms. Smith.”

Dr. Cook glanced at his watch, a sudden burst of energy rising in him. “Bollocks…” He whispered. “Ah, apologies! I’m needed in the electrical treatment room. You two- just- just settle out whateva’s needed. I’ve got to go!”

As Dr. Cook sprinted away, Ms. Abbey turned to Ms. Smith. “What do you need?” 

“I’m here for your patient, Angel Faulkner.” Ms. Smith responded.

Ms. Abbey raised a brow. “Why, what about Angel? Has he done something wrong?”

“One of your doctors had sent in a request for him to be transported to a facility better equipped to handle someone with his problems.” Ms. Smith explained.

“Really…?” Ms. Abbey frowned. “It wasn’t me… I thought I was handling him quite well. I’ve never had any issues with him, other than one incident. But it was cleared up rather quickly.”

Ms. Smith seemed interested. “One incident?”

“Oh,” Suddenly Ms. Abbey realized her terrible choice of words. “Well, it wasn’t that big of a deal. It was just… when he turned 18, he was going to be assigned a new doctor. He was no longer a minor, so he didn’t need me anymore.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, he threw a terrible fit. It was something so abnormal for him, he’s never acted like that before…”

“How did you deal with it?” Ms. Smith asked.

“Well, I just stayed. I was given what I needed for him, and everything went back to normal, I suppose.”

Ms. Smith pressed, “Why do you think he acted that way, Ms. Abbey?”

For a moment, Ms. Abbey stood silent, as if contemplating whether or not she should continue this conversation. She sighed, then said, “Well, if you are familiar with Angel, you’d know that he’s more than just… “ill-witted”, dare I use that word…” She glanced into the cafeteria. “He has a reason for the things he does. He may be from a well-respected and wealthy family, but that does not mean life was all peachy for him.”

“I don’t recall this as a part of his file.”

“Really?” Ms. Abbey cocked a brow. “I thought they would have added it.” She turned back to Ms. Smith. “Well, according to Angel himself, life wasn’t bright behind closed doors, not at all. His parents were absolutely vile people, or so he says.” She sighed. “They tell us to mind not what the patients say, but… I can’t help but believe him. I’ve worked with him for a little over ten years, and from the time I’ve spent with him, I’d say I know him better than anyone else in this building.” She stepped closer to Ms. Smith and whispered. “I firmly believe he built this fantasy bubble around himself as protection against his parents, and set his manor alight to escape their abuse.”

Ms. Smith nodded. “So, if he’s not violent, why do you think they want to transfer him?”

“I never said he wasn’t violent,” Ms. Abbey stated, “I said that I myself didn’t have problems with him. He does not act the same way with other doctors or patients as he acts with me.”

“Has he hurt others in this facility?"

“Indeed.” Ms. Abbey frowned. “Although it’s not terribly frequent. It only happens when he gets frustrated, say someone upsets him or a patient fights with me-”

The end-of-lunch bell rang over the intercoms, and the patients began leaving their seats. From the crowd, a man in a white jumpsuit approached the two women. His face and hands were severely burned, covered in scars that appeared to have been repaired with multiple skin grafts. His eyes were glossed over, pale in a way that was rather unnerving, and atop his scarred head, scattered strands and tufts of auburn hair. He stood close to Ms. Abbey, eyeing down Ms. Smith with something of a glare.

“‘Ello Angel.” Ms. Abbey greeted him. “Did you enjoy lunch?’

“...Yes, ma’am.” He answered softly, with a low, gravely and accented voice.

“What did you have?”

“Sheppard’s pie.”

“Ooh!” She responded excitedly with over-kindness. “That sounds grand! I bet it was delicious.”

Angel’s cold stare did not leave Ms. Smith. Ms. Abbey quickly noticed.

“Oh, Angel, this is Ms. Smith.” She gestured to the other woman.

“Is she a new nurse?” Angel asked.

“Well, no.” With eyes full of sorrow, Ms. Abbey took Angel’s hand and concentrated on him. “Angel, I need you to listen to me, okay? Ms. Smith is taking you to America, where people can help you-”

Angel’s demeanor changed dramatically. Angry, he furrowed his brows and shook his head as he tightly gripped her hand, and yelled, “No! No, Ms. Abbey, you’re _my_ nurse! You help me! You’re the only one who can!”

“We do not have the means of caring for you, Angel.” Ms. Abbey responded calmly. “They do, they can help you- Angel!”

Angel had violently shoved Ms. Smith into the wall, sending her papers flying everywhere. The other patients became frenzied at the outburst, crying aloud, trying to escape the situation. Ms. Abbey grabbed onto Angel’s shoulders, attempting to pull him off of Ms. Smith.

Swing after swing, Angel repeatedly punched Ms. Smith as he held her against the wall. “She doesn’t _know_ me, Ms. Abbey! And she never will!” Angel screamed, “You’re the only one who can help me! The only one!”

This extent of Angel’s rage was something Ms. Abbey had never seen before. She was shaken. Never had she thought he was capable of this kind of violence. 

“Angel, stop it!” Ms. Abbey shouted as she pulled against his jumpsuit. “Let go of her! Now!”

Several doctors rushed in and restrained Angel, pulling his arms behind his back and pushing him to the ground. He fought, growling and shaking, jerking against their grip. With a quick swing, one doctor plunged a needle into his neck, and within a few moments, Angel was out cold.

Ms. Abbey covered her face with her hands, and turned away as if shielding her grief.

One doctor turned to Ms. Smith and asked, “Are you the doctor from Geneva Mental Health?” 

Ms. Smith nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“We’ll carry him to your vehicle, if you need.”

🜚

A group of doctors had cuffed Angel and adjusted his unconscious body in the backseat of her car. It was sort of an odd scene that would certainly raise eyebrows, especially if she was pulled over for whatever reason. But work is work. At least she had the papers to prove it.

As the doctors retreated inside the asylum, Ms. Abbey approached with a backpack and a pink flowery handbag.

“These are his things,” said Ms. Abbey. “It has his paperwork, storybooks, clothes, toys, and goggles.”

“Goggles?” Ms. Smith questioned.

“Yes, we used them for mental therapy. It helped a lot with keeping him calm. It creates an optical illusion of some sort. He called it his “halo”.”

“Interesting." Ms. Smith glanced down to her hand. "What’s that pink handbag?”

“It was mine, but I gave it to Angel.” Ms. Abbey chuckled. “Ah, he’s a silly lad. I think you’ll enjoy his company.” Then, her smile fell. “...Um, you can use your hospital’s transistor radio and call, if he ever, you know, wants to talk to me.”

“I’ll be sure he knows.” Ms. Smith waved. “Thank you, Ms. Abbey.”

With sorrow in her eyes, Ms. Abbey returned the wave, and quickly headed back to the asylum.

When she entered her car, Ms. Smith looked in each direction before pulling the sweaty blonde wig from her head. She flicked on her multi-purpose car radio and slid open a latch on the dashboard, pulling the thin corded microphone from it and said, 

“Administrator? It’s Pauling. It was a little... difficult, but I have RED’s Pyro. I need you to look at these...” She held the goggles up to her eye level. "Optical illusion goggles. They may be useful."

🜚


	7. Meet: The Demoman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although this introduction is rather short compared to the others, Demoman is given much more attention in the actual story, I promise. He's a favorite of mine, I wouldn't do him dirty like that.
> 
> Next: Meet the Heavy

_DeGroot Manor, Ullapool, Scotland_

_October 30th, 1936_

_One crossed wire,_

_One wayward pinch of Potassium Chlorate,_

_One errant twitch,_

_And…_

_With an ear-busting bang, the walls of the metal shed tore from their frames and flew across the yard. As the burning debris fell from the sky, the grass and bushes combusted into flames and ignited the nearby structures._

_All around him, he saw the building falling apart, but he could not run away. He was stuck on the ground, his legs unmoving. Unfeeling. And his ears, unhearing. Slowly he lifted his right arm to his eyes. It was scratched, bruised, cut..._

_Bleeding. Everything was bleeding._

_His vision suddenly faltered, His right eye became blurry, lost, red,_

_Then he saw nothing at all._

🜚

DeGroot Residence, Aberdeen, Scotland

May 16th, 1968

1:23 PM

Groggily he rolled out of bed, and practically crawled to his bathroom. He hung his head and tightly clung to the sink, doing his damndest to not topple over onto the floor. He felt a nasty sickness rising in his stomach. Light-headedness and nausea began to creep upon him.

He’s drinking himself to death. He’s been doing it for years now. It feels like decades of this neverending cycle, so long that he cannot remember when the disease began. 

Maybe that’s the poison killing his brain. 

After a few moments, he sniffled, and finally collected himself. He opened his eye and looked into the bathroom mirror. Reflecting back at him was his shirtless self. All across his dusky skin were various scars and burns, mostly on his right arm which suffered an immense amount of damage. Truthfully his entire right side sustained a sickening collection of scars. The right side of his face was severely burned, and his eye...

The doctors had to remove it. After the explosion, his cornea was scorched, damaging his iris and pupil, allowing the retina to become exposed to violent light and permanently damaging his eye. It couldn’t be fixed, and keeping it could have caused infections. 

With all this damage, he knew he was hideous. A disgusting wretch. A giant black scarred up one-eyed monstrosity. No different than a bloody _Shellycoat._ He's seen enough of those things in his life to know what monstrous looks like.

_“Oh you’re a real freak of nature, aren’t ye, Tavish?”_

Had he not been a fool, perhaps he’d be a decent looking man, Tavish thought. Hell, maybe even a downright attractive man- well, about as attractive as a black man in Scotland gets.

Given his dark freckles against his brown skin, his green eye, occasional strands of red within his black hair, and his pale-skinned, freckled, and fiery-haired great grandfather... he’d say it wasn’t that unlikely. Maybe he could fulfill his mother's wishes, and have a family...

No, regardless, it didn't matter anyway. His chances of ever being fully accepted were ruined. Tavish knew this, he saw it fall apart in front of him.

After the death of his father, he and his mother were already struggling. According to his will, Tavish’s father was going to leave his company to him, but Tavish was not old enough to run it himself and there was no one else who could legally take it over, aside from his mother. But his mother was not a chemist, she had no knowledge of actinics, synthetics, enzymatics, or any kind of chemical makeups like that. She owned a brewery and mulled whiskey. That was her field. So they had to close the doors on DeGroot Demolition. It wasn’t all sour, though. The brewery made a pretty penny for them.

Until Tavish blew it up.

October of 1936, he was in the backyard shed, building contraptions just like his father used to. _Dangerous_ contraptions, yes, but he was confident that he knew what he was doing. He had worked with his father enough to know, so he thought.

But he clipped the wrong wire.

Less than a second, he was on the ground and everything was in flames. A piece of the shed crashed into the brewery, setting it alight, too. Johnnie and Gloria, relatives that had helped with the brewery for many years, were in there when it crumbled to the ground.

Never does a night pass without Tavish being overwhelmed with regret. His mother says that she forgives him, but Tavish isn’t so sure, never was. How could she forgive him when he ruined their life? He destroyed their home and family business, killed two relatives, ruined their reputation, and forced them out of Ullapool. Using their savings, his mother had to buy them a rickety old house in Aberdeen, and take up a mediocre job as a waitress. Hunting Shellycoats and Kelpies only got them so far.

By the time he was an adult, he had a criminal record and soiled notoriety. No one would hire him.

Except those who needed a dishonorable soldier.

He’s spent his years killing and blowing shit up for a living. How much better could it get?

Tavish slowly combed back the last tuft of hair and slammed the brush down on the sink. “Better.” He whispered. “It could be a lot better.”

  
  


🜚

“Tavish! Get yer arse downstairs! There’s a lass here for ye!” Mrs. DeGroot yelled upstairs, then turned back to the aforementioned lass. “Who’d ye say ye were again, ma’am?”

“Ms. Pauling, from TF. Industries.”

“Her nem’s Ms. Pauling, Tavish!”

From upstairs, a young man’s voice yelled back, “Alright mum, ‘m commin’!”

The old woman smiled placed her hands on Ms. Pauling’s shoulders and said, “Oh, you’ll luv Tavish. He’s a nice lad. He’s got a bit of a temper, but once ye get te know ‘em, he’ll come around.”

Loud footsteps stomped across the upper floor, all the way to the top of the staircase. Tavish stepped down, dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and trainers. He approached Ms. Pauling, but his mother quickly grabbed his arm and stopped him. 

“Dammit, boyo!” She scolded as she felt the clothes he was wearing. “Ye couldn’t bother te dress up nicely?”

Tavish sighed and responded tiredly, “Nah mum, couldn’t find anythin’ nice.” He looked at Ms. Pauling. “Who’re ye?”

Mrs. DeGroot lightly smacked him on the back of the head. “Respect, Tavish!”

Ms. Pauling handed the packet she held to Tavish. “I’m Ms. Pauling from TF. Industries, and I,” She flipped the packet open to a specific page and pointed, saying “...am looking for someone with your skill.”

Tavish held the packet closer to his face, angling it to his single eye so he could see the small print easier. After a minute or so, Tavish seemed to perk up with interest. “This isn’t a one time job, ma’am?”

“We’ll keep you as long as we need you, with compensation every week.” Ms. Pauling grinned.

“Oh, this- this is grand!” Tavish laughed, with a wide beaming grin. “Absolutely grand!”

Ms. Pauling turned on her heel, stepping towards the door. “We’ll discuss everything else later. Just grab whatever you need and meet me outside.”

Once Ms. Pauling had stepped out, Mrs. Degroot turned to her son with a smile. “Oh Tavish, she’s a nice looking lass, in’ she? Her voice sounded very sweet, an’ her shoulders felt petit an’ thin!”

Tavish rolled his eye. “Aye, but I’m not interested, mum.”

“Ye better find yeself a lass soon, boyo! I’m not gettin’ much older! An' neither are ye lad, you're past 40!” She huffed. 

Tavish chuckled and shook his head before giving his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “Ye tryin’ te get me te look in all the wrong places, mum.” 

“Go get yer stuff, laddie.” said Mrs. DeGroot. “Never keep a lady waitin’.”

As Tavish stomped up the stairs, he was quickly reminded of just what was at stake here. He would be leaving his elderly blind mother behind, all by her lonesome in this rickety old house. She was as stubborn as a bull, and would never ask for help when she needed it.

But she was wise beyond his years and could care for herself. She’s proven it. This isn’t the first time he’s left her alone for several days due to work, given it was involuntary.

Tavish quickly changed into his usual mercenary gear; protective demolition suit, tactical vest, gloves, boots, and helmet. Hastily he grabbed his launchers and packed everything else, clothes and whatnot, into his viridian bag and headed back downstairs. With skills like his, this job should be over before long anyway, and he’ll be back home in no time, right?

At least, Tavish thought, he didn't have to track water demons anymore.

🜚


	8. Meet: The Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the chapters I had the hardest time rewriting, but was also one of my favorites. I love history, which is why I take a very historical stance on the setting of this story. However, I am not a scholar, some things may be incorrect, so please let me know if something may be inaccurate.
> 
> Note: When any dialogue (outside of thoughts and flashbacks) appears in italics, it is being spoken in a different language. Heavy's dialogue will be grammatically correct when spoken in Russian, but when he is speaking English, there will be intentional errors. This also applies to any character that does not speak English well. 
> 
> Next: Meet The Engineer
> 
> EDIT: A clarification:
> 
> "Gulag" is not a prison, nor is it a type of prison. GULAG is an acronym for "Glavnoye Upravleniye Ispravitelno-Trudovykh Lagerey" (Translation: “Chief Administration of Corrective Labour Camps”) This was a "system" of Soviet prisons, labor camps specifically, and accompanying detention and transit camps, as well. These prisons held inmates, both criminal and not (those merely stated to be "criminals.") Conditions within these prison camps were horrid, and while several of Russia's modern-day prisons are still rough, they simply do not compare to the Soviet labor camps.
> 
> However, while Svirlag was a real camp, the account written here is entirely fictional.
> 
> (Profile Shots added)

_Svirlag, Leningrad Oblast, USSR_

_January 6th, 1931_

_The brutality of Stalin’s Soviets knew no bounds. Thousands upon thousands of citizens were killed and seized, taken from their homes for suspicion of treason, sometimes far less than that. Hardly was it ever anything genuine. Stalin himself was a rather superstitious man, his paranoia often overpowered his reason. Rumors say Stalin believes that his colleagues are plotting against him, to overthrow him and come to power in his place. One can only fear what Stalin would do to prevent such a thing. Mass death would be in his wake._

_Blood would stain the hands of Stalin’s pawns. More than what’s already dripping from each vile finger._

_The Soviet soldiers forced them in line with other prisoners, spitting profanities their way and shoving them with their guns. Anger rose in the pit of his stomach, rage burned beneath his chest. He tightly clenched his fists until they shook against his sides._

_“Mikhail,” his mother whispered as she took his hand. “No matter what they do, keep your head on your shoulders, my son. Never forget your father’s wisdom.”_

_Mikhail couldn’t forget. He’d never forget the man he looked up to most. His father was the voice for those that couldn't speak, the arm for those that couldn't fight, and the back for those that couldn't bear. He led a resistance of thousands straight from his home, for those that wanted liberty, to live like an American. But in the walls of their fortress was a traitor, a Soviet Spy._

_Less than a week later, the Soviets came to Mikhail’s home. First, they took his father onto the streets of Saint Petersberg and shot him in the head, then they forced him, his mother, and his three sisters onto a truck that will take them into the woods, to Svirlag, a newly constructed labor camp where they’ll either be worked to death or starve to death._

_He was only 18, and he'd die in prison._

_Mikhail felt that he’d rather take a gunshot to the head._

_They were pushed through the gates, inside the camps, surrounded by the tall fences of the prison. Within the crowd they walked with hundreds of other captives, brushing against each other. Most of the inmates were men, not quite young but not that old either. This was no surprise to Mikhail. Stalin feared men, men who were clever and bright. Men who lowered their heads before no one._

_That which he feared, he destroyed._

_Mikhail was certain these men were bold, but it was more likely that they were falsely accused of some heinous crime. Treason, defiance, collusion... for what, it didn’t really matter. They were all doomed either way._

_There was a sudden tug on Mikhail’s shirt. He turned, looking down at his younger sister, 6 year old Zhanna._

_“Brother Misha, I’m scared.” She quivered with a whisper._

_Mikhail pulled his sister closer to him, away from the moving crowd. “Do not worry.” He responded, “We will be okay.”_

_Zhanna gripped onto Mikhail’s shirt, trembling.“Will they shoot us, Misha? Like they shot daddy? Do not let them shoot us, Misha. I do not-”_

_“No, sister, they will not shoot us.” Mikhail hushed her. “I will not let them harm us.”_

_Only two weeks within the towering walls of Svirlag, and the guards had begun executions. In the dead of night, men would be taken from their beds, and guns would fire in echoes. The screams and cries that followed were unbearable. The thought of someone’s friends, husbands, brothers, or sons, ripped from them forever, hearing that fatal shot ring. What had they done? Why were they being punished like this? Was it some sick game to the Soviets? Did they enjoy this?_

_Normally the children of supposed criminals would be taken to orphanages shortly after their parents’ arrest. But in the case of Mikhail and his family, this process was completely skipped. He assumed that the reasoning was because his mother and sisters were involved with his father’s resistance. But this still did not make sense because baby sister Bronislava was only a year old. Yanna was 5. Did they just not care?_

_Of course they didn’t._

_And that is what scared Mikhail the most._

_His mother and younger sisters were across the camp, in the women’s quarters, alone and unprotected. He cannot leave the men’s quarters. Guards crawled throughout the prison during the late hours, hunting for fools that try to escape. Mikhail’s heard stories, the horrors of women’s treatment in the obscure labor camps. He promised his father, should anything happen to him, that Mikhail would take it upon himself to protect his mother and sisters. But now, he was useless._

_What was the purpose of a man if he could not defend his family?_

_Their imprisonment came to an end the night Zhanna shrieked, her cries shaking Svirlag's walls as she was taken into the darkness. Mikhail’s eyes flashed open. He jerked out of bed and ran towards the door. Every rule of Svirlag was defied as he rushed out of the men’s quarters, and towards the cries of his young sister. Guards roared and fired at him as he ran, but nothing stopped him. With his stubbornness and powerful will, Mikhail evaded every bullet. His determination did not go unnoticed. It only takes one to inspire the herd. Each inmate began to rise from their beds, finding strength in their numbers. The number of guards was only double-digit, and the prisoners, triple-digit. The prison had been quickly overtaken, making a perfect distraction for Mikhail to advance._

_At the far end of the camp, he finally found young Zhanna. She was pinned against the cold walls of the prison, her skirt below her knees as she trembled underneath the weight of the two wicked Soviets above her. They had bound her hands, holding them in a rough grasp. Their cold, dirty palms scratched her pale skin with every filthy touch and trace they made across her small body._

_And yet she bravely fought against their hold, crying aloud, “S- Stop! Let go of me! Please!”_

_But the soldiers only laughed at her weak struggle, and persisted._

_Not a second passed any longer. Fuming, Mikhail lunged towards the two men and tackled them to ground. With her teary eyes widened, Zhanna stepped away from them and hurriedly adjusted her clothes._

_“Go, sister!” Mikhail snarled through his anger as the men struggled underneath his mighty grip. “Find mama and go! Now!”_

_The girl said nothing more and bolted. Mikhail’s fury did not leave the Soviets. They choked beneath his grasp, cursing him with weak raspy whispers as their eyes rolled into their skulls, and their bodies fell limp._

_It was slow. Miserable. Mikhail wanted it that way. His face would follow them to Hell._

_Good._

_Through the scuffle, the soldiers were outnumbered. The inmates had overpowered them, took their guns, and turned the fire onto them. They killed every soldier in sight._

_Then, they had set the camp alight and fled outside as it burned._

_“We need to leave before more Soviets arrive.” One man said._

_Pointing to the barn-like structure along the forest line, a little ways from the prison itself, another man responded, “They have vehicles. We can get away quicker.”_

_Along with the other prisoners, Mikhail’s mother held her daughters close to her as she listened in, but she repeatedly glanced, waiting for her son to appear among the faces around her. It wasn’t long. Mikhail emerged from the darkness, and her face fell from worried to relieved._

_“Oh Misha,” She sighed and reached out to him with her free arm, the other holding Bronislava. “I thought you were gone.”_

_“No,” Mikhail responded as he hugged her tightly. “I would not leave you here, mama.”_

_Yanna and Zhanna rushed to Mikhail’s sides, gripping his legs with attempted hugs._

_Mikhail’s mother closed her eyes tightly, sniffing as she attempted to choke a sob and said, “We cannot go home, Misha. They will find us.”_

_Zhanna shuddered against him. She cried, “No, p- please Misha! You can not… you can not let them find us!”_

_“We are Voldovs, mama.” Mikhail said, resting a hand on Zhanna’s shoulder. “We will fight this. Papa always did.”_

_With that remark, Mikhail’s mother couldn’t help but let a soft smile cross her face._

  
  


🜚

Dzhugdzhur Mountains, Khabarovsk Krai, USSR

May 12th, 1968

  
  


In the Siberian mountains, there isn’t much money could do for someone. In fact, money was rather useless in the union anyway, when you can’t even spend it on anything. _Supplies,_ however, supplies was well worth the work. Supplies provided the necessities for living; no need for the slips of paper required to buy it. Mikhail recalls being gifted 5 yaks in compensation for his labor after one job he worked in Kazan. The yaks provided milk and could breed to create more yaks, in turn allowing the yaks to be a source of food as well. Mikhail would rather be paid in yaks than rubles. It would be fine with him.

But money was useful for storage, sealed for when they finally manage to leave the mountains, whenever that would be.

Not for a while.

Not for a long, long time.

But that is fine.

It has been a week or so since his last job. That was good, Misha thought. He has been called on rather frequently now, compared to the years before. His name traveled people’s lips. When they wanted a hired arm, someone who can get things done without question, they’d find him. He had a good reputation. They _wanted_ him, and they were willing to pay.

Outside, the snow fell slowly. Mikhail ran his finger across the neck of the vodka bottle. The clouded sun shined rather faintly through the dining room window, its rays casting a glowing reflection as it passed through the bottle and onto the table. The soft light provided a calm and comforting feeling for Mikhail, and shined into the room, just enough for him to read the words in his book.

“ _Misha,_ ” His now elderly mother called from the kitchen, “ _There is a woman outside. She may have work._ ”

_Good,_ Misha thought to himself, _T_ _hat is fine._

_There is never enough._

🜚


	9. Meet: The Engineer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for such a long-waited update. My outside life has been rather busy, updates may be more spread apart now. But I have no plans on quitting this project, I assure that. Just be aware that updates will not be as frequent.
> 
> Next: Meet The Medic
> 
> Warnings in the tags. This one is dark.

_Austin, Texas, USA_

_February 14th, 1963_

_10:01 PM_

  
  


_He’d spend most nights like this._

_Normally at this hour, he’d be asleep. But after three months of this routine, he’s learned that attempting to rest at 8 PM is pointless when he’d just be interrupted two hours later. Sleep wasn’t an option at the moment. So he waited._

_His house was very rural, about thirty minutes outside of the Austin city limits. He didn’t mind waking up early in order to get to work. He was used to it. His family owns a farm around Bandera, where he lived most of his life. He moved closer to Austin for the opportunity it held. Although he had skills in the agricultural field, his passion was in that of mechanical science and engineering. He couldn’t follow that dream in little Bandera, so at eighteen he left for Austin, attending the local university and eventually becoming a physics and engineering professor at the school. Quickly he realized, however, city life just wasn’t for him. The constant commotion and noise, especially late at night, was far too much for him to bear._

_It seems rather reminiscent of his younger years, staying up late like this. His parents didn’t question him working late in the garage until it became an everyday habit. He wasn’t diagnosed with some sort of sleeping disorder (which only seven years ago he discovered was called “insomnia”) and an obsessive-compulsive disorder until he was fourteen. He didn’t mind the medication, he knew it helped him. He kept up with it for twenty-two years. But he had to stop. It was his only option. He could not go to sleep anymore, not right now._

_He hadn’t taken this medicine in three months, not since that phone call._

_It was 10:10 PM. All the lights in his house were off. The window curtains were pulled closed. The thermometer read sixty-five degrees. He waited._

_Tense in his armchair, next to the nightstand where his white house phone was, with the corded handset resting on the receiver, he waited._

_He expected it, and he waited._

_Every night around 10 PM, his phone receiver would ring. The first time it happened, he wasn’t too concerned. Perhaps it was a confused student in need of assistance with homework. Or maybe the caller was a coworker having trouble with something. He’s had these types of calls before, it would bother him too badly._

_But the caller was the last person he expected._

_A coyote howled in the distance, a cry like that of mourning. He waited._

_His grandfather clock’s minute hand ticked. He waited._

_A swift breeze passed through the porch’s windchimes. He waited._

_Seconds, seconds, seconds..._

_Piercing his ears, a harsh haunting ring._

_Jerking to his left, he gripped the phone in his large hand and ripped it from the receiver with widened eyes. He slowly moved the phone handset to his ear and listened for a few moments. On the other side there was the faint sound of breathing, yet no voice. No- not breathing; sobbing._

_“Dell?” He spoke._

_Quiet, sobbing. The respondent sniffled, sighed, and shakily inhaled before finally speaking._

_“Danny,” Dell had whispered, dragging his voice with a rasp, “I… I need help, Danny. I need my brother’s help. Ma an’ Pa won’t help me, Danny. I need yer help…”_

_His body flushed pale, and a familiar fear emerged within. “Did- Did you not go to-”_

_“It don’t matter, Danny! They can’t help me! They ain’t gonna help me!”_

_Dell’s outburst was a first for these phone calls. It startled Danny, but it did not scare him away. It only caused his earlier fears to rise. Not long ago, Danny became aware of what was infecting his brother’s mind. It was a looming dark curtain of black clouds; a dread that grew in his soul, filled with constant flooding thoughts of anguish and sorrow. Dell could not stop the choke this suffering had him in, so he looked to Danny, the brains of the family, to heal him._

_But Danny was no doctor._

_He wished he was._

_“Dell, please,” Danny spoke as calmly as he could manage. “I know ya feel helpless right now- look, it ain’t gonna stay that way forever, but ya need to understand, ain’t nobody gonna help ya if ya can’t help yerself. Ya can’t expect someone else to solve all yer problems. Ya need to prove that yer willing to bring yerself up Dell. If not for yerself, do it for yer youngins.”_

_“Ya don’t think I’ve tried?” Dell’s shout was hoarse. “I’ve tried my damnedest!”_

_“No Dell, ya haven’t.” Danny attempted to not sound chastising, but he knew this was something Dell had to hear. “We… We’ve been havin’ these conversations for three months now Dell, an’ I ain’t seen not a damn thing change with ya. When I stop by after work, yer yards filthy, yer dogs ’re starvin’, an’ yer truck’s been outta gas for weeks now. Ya ain’t gon’ to work, ya ain’t gon’ nowhere. Ya ain’t tryin’, Dell. All I’ve been doin’ for ya, all these talks… I’ve jus’ been runnin’ my mouth to ya, an’ everythin’ I say goes one ear out the other.”_

_The opposite side of the phone grew quiet, and Danny became slightly worried. He awaited Dell’s response but one had not come._

_“Dell?” Danny called out._

_“I just feel gone, Dan.” Dell finally responded almost a whisper. “I know I shouldn't, but feel like there’s just- there's no reason to fight it no more.”_

_“...What are you talkin’ ‘bout?”_

_“I feel like… I feel like there’s nothin’ worth changin’.”_

_Danny’s palms became slick with sweat. The phone handset almost slipped from his hands. His own racing heart pulsed loudly in his ears. Dell was talking nonsense, right? Nonsense, that’s all it was. He’s just confused._

_“Of course there’s something worth changin’ for. What’re-”_

_“I can’t, Danny. I just… I can’t. No more. It's been too long. Way too long.”_

_“Dell?”_

_Moments passed. There was no response, instead, Danny heard Dell’s phone fall onto the table with a small thump. Danny continued to call to his brother, his tone becoming more and more distressed when he received no answer. The other side was silent, only with the occasional bump. Danny listened as heavy footsteps stomped to the other side of the room. A cabinet door creaked open, and a large object was dragged across the floor._

_Beads of sweat dripped down Danny’s face, He gripped the phone with shaky hands._

_“Dell, answer me! Please!” Danny cried._

_It was quiet. Deafeningly quiet. He heard not a word. Nothing. Yet Danny continued to call to him, expecting something, anything at all._

_Only seconds passed. Danny’s ears were assaulted with a sudden and awful loud crack; a shot had rung from Dell’s side of the call. Danny knew the sound- it was buckshot. Something heavy slammed onto the floor, followed by a lighter thud. Then, silence once more._

_Stunned, Danny sat in his armchair, unmoving. The phone handset fell from his hand and clattered onto the nightstand. It was quick, but certainly not painless, he knew. Dell felt pain up until the end of it. It was the shot that would end his pain._

_But at what cost?_

_Danny mustered up the courage to pick back up the handset again. He knew what had to be done. Slowly he dialed 911 and awaited the operator to answer._

_“911, what’s your emergency?”_

_“I… my brother…” Danny stuttered into the phone. The words were losing him._

_“What’s happened to your brother?”_

_“...My brother has… committed suicide.”_

  
  


🜚

University of Austin

Austin, Texas, USA

May 17th, 1968

11:25 AM

The students sat in awe, staring at the little gadget their professor had placed before them. About ten minutes earlier, he had assembled it as a part of the lesson: The Logic of Circuits. Normally this was a rather simple subject, but these were his first-year students, and Mr. Conagher has always took the simplistic to the extreme; the breaking and joining chains of electricity for power, opening and closing circuits, redirecting electrical currents, giving and receiving power…

To demonstrate such a thing, Mr. Conagher had connected a heavily modified surge protector to six miniature robots. The device had been plugged into a portable circuit breaker, and were connected as a chain across his long desk. The robots, when on, displayed different colors on the face-screens, moved their heads, and played a song. Mr. Conagher flipped switches, carefully easing around exposed components with his robotic left hand, and alternated the flow of electricity from each machine. One robot played Johnny Cash’s _Tennesse Flat Top Box_ , another played Frank Sinatra’s _Blue Moon_. With each switch, some songs were playing at the same time, such as Aretha Franklin’s _Chain of Fools_ , and Beach Boys’ _Good Vibrations._ Odd combination. Dean Martin’s _Ain’t That a Kick in The Head?_ and Patsy Cline’s _Crazy_ were clicking in and out of the changing circuits, creating something of a... chaotic symphony. 

The demonstration ended with a literal bang. Mr. Conagher pressured an intentional power surge through the circuits, brightening the classroom with blazing colors as he overloaded the device right there on the desk.

With a wide grin, Mr. Conagher exclaimed, “And that concludes today’s lesson!”

As soon as the demonstration was over, Mr. Conagher looked up at his class. The students were leaning forwards, some standing up from their desks, enthralled by the presentation. He couldn’t help but smile.

Laura Willis, a student on the far end of the classroom, rested her cheek in her hand and focussed on her professor’s expression. “Ahh, he looks the best when he’s happy. So handsome.”

“Gross, Laura. Are you going to swoon over Mr. Conagher every single day? He’s like, 50. And looks like a dad.” Eva Lively, who sat next to her, scrunched up her nose in disgust.

“So?” Laura responded with a smile. “Doesn’t matter. Love is love, Eva. Make’s the world go ‘round.”

Eva rolled her eyes. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of those hippies.”

The students began packing up their things and preparing to leave for their next class. Mr. Conagher disassembled his contraption and placed the pieces in a large box. Suddenly, the classroom’s doors opened, and a staff member stepped in with some kind of urgent expression on his face. With his hand on Mr. Conagher’s shoulder, the smaller man whispered,

“There’s a woman waiting outside for you. One of those… _higher-ups_.”

Mr. Conagher frowned. “Did... she say why?”

“No,” The man replied. “Just that it was important. I’ll watch your class for you, Daniel. Go see what she wants. She's making everyone, uh, uncomfortable.”

Mr. Conagher stepped out of the room, a bit worried. What on God’s green earth had he done to cause someone with _that_ kind of status to be looking for him?

Eva turned to Laura. “Huh. Wonder what happened?"

  
  


🜚

“I reiterate, Mr. Conagher, this is only a request. But I assure you, it is indeed a worthwhile proposition.”

Arms crossed, Danny tapped his fingers. The woman- Ms. Pauling, he learned, offered him what only sounded like a dream, a fantasy; there was no way in Sam Hill any person had that kind of money to spare on nine men.

Danny wasn't a greedy man. He lived comfortably, a lot more than others could say for themselves, but he was perfectly happy right where he sat. He didn't need to buy the newest things or follow the trends. Money was a commodity. He knew how to live without it.

He wouldn't even be considering this if he didn't need it, though.

Dell’s suicide, despite it being five years since then, left bills to pay, and children to take care of. On top of that, Danny’s parents were in the late years of their life and needed assistance- that which also required a sizable amountt funds; a college professor only makes so much.

It's a very tempting idea. Danny frowned. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ms. Pauling watching him rather intently, and wondered if she knew what was crossing his mind. She certaintly had a silver tongue; people like her were a dangerous game. They made everything look so easy.

God almighty, he shouldn't be thinking about this. There was no question; there are better ways to deal with his financial situation. He wasn't desperate, he can turn away. Nothing was stopping him. He had a _choice._

If Danny took up her offer, he had to kill people. Without question. Ms. Pauling didn't leave out the fine print, surprisingly. She told him directly what he had to do: manufacture deadly weapons, build and program security defenses, and protect his teammates (and himself) with strong fortifications. She left nothing unsaid between them. He knew what he would be in for.

He didn't have to do it. He can turn away at any moment. Nothing was stopping him, and yet...

Danny sighed, and rolled the papers into a fine tube, holding it gently with his clawed robotic hand. He finally turned back to the ever-patient Ms. Pauling, who simply smiled back at him. Waiting. Danny shook his head.

He just needed to ask one more question. 

“Ma’am, if I do take this job, where will I send my youngins?” Dell spoke promptly. Her response would determine his decision.

Ms. Pauling raised a brow. “Your… children? The file didn’t say you had a spouse or children.”

“Well- technically they’re not mine.” Danny sighed. “And no, I was never married. But I’m rasin’ those little hellians like they’re my own. They mean a lot t’ me.”

“Surely you have a relative they could stay with?” Ms. Pauling inquired.

“Well, my parents… but they’re pretty old now. I trust ‘em, but…”

“What about an assisted-living nurse?" She offered. "I could help hire one, and with your earnings, you can keep up with the pay.”

“That’s a nice idea, Ms. Pauling, but I really don’t trust anyone else with m’ folks but m’self. Honest.” Danny tapped the rolled paper against his thigh. He had a choice.

“I assure you, Mr. Conagher, I’ll find the best one can offer.”

Danny scratched his chin, deep in thought. She's awfully persistent, and this was more than likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, would he really give it up?

He wasn't desperate, he can turn away. Nothing was stopping him.

“It’s your call, Mr. Conagher. All the paperwork is right here. I’m sure you’re no stranger to it.”

His eyes shifted up, a cold glare locked with Ms. Pauling's directly; it was a genuine and humorless stare he learned from his father, and had perfected, a sign of solemnity and seriousness. 

Nothing was stopping him. He had a _choice._

And he made it.

“I’ll do it." Danny replied, with utmost sincerity. "But on the condition that ya keep m' youngins and m' folks safe.”

Ms. Pauling grinned. “You don’t have to worry. They’ll be alright.”

Danny furrowed his brows. He may have chose this path, but he did not have to trust this woman, nor her people; he doesn't, and never will. White-collars aren't meant to be trusted, and Daniel Conagher wasn’t afraid to stand his ground, to defend what he loved. Where he grew up, crimes against families were dealt with _covertly._ Personal. It was no one else’s business but those who were involved, especially the law. Not until it was over, at least. In _certain_ cases, that is.

It wouldn’t be the first time Danny would have to deal with familial issues of the sort.

Ms. Pauling handed the papers to Danny and turned on her heel. “Gather what you need and meet me at the Austin airport at 6 PM. I’ll be waiting.”

This woman seemed nice, but Danny knew all about fake public faces. It could be an act, and it probably was. Even if the smiles were for show, people like her know it's wise to keep their word to strangers; in her case, especially so. The Conaghers have a name in these parts of Texas, one that she was surely unfamiliar with. Dare she cross him on her promise…

He only hoped it wouldn’t come to such a thing.

🜚


	10. Meet: The Medic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THE TAGS. PLEASE. THIS ONE IS DARK.
> 
> Hello again. Please keep in mind, this is a FICTIONAL spin on real historical events, and no offense is intended.  
> Also, this chapter is, of course, in the perspective of Medic, so the view on certain things is in his own bias. Which means, there is a twist on how he is seeing situations versus what is actually going on.
> 
> Next: Meet the Sniper

_Königsberg, Prussia (German Empire)_

_December 6th, 1941_

_3:05 PM_

  
  


_Hooks held open the prisoner’s stomach cavity. Their ropes were fastened on miniature pillars protruding from the operating table. Slowly the doctor tightened them, creaking as it pulled the skin farther and farther apart. He peered downward with a grin, watching as the tightened ropes earned a whimper from the teary-eyed prisoner strapped to the operating table below him. Turning to his left, the doctor picked up a shiny pair of silver forceps. He ran his gloved finger along the tool, admiring its shine, then loomed over the prisoner once again, before forcing the forceps into the open cavity. The prisoner’s cries were muffled by the balled-up rag shoved in his mouth, forcing it open. The doctor pressed deeper into the gaping cavity, his gloved hand squishing against the walls and entrails of the prisoner’s stomach. The poor captive jerked from side to side, screaming into the rag. He choked on his own spit, tasting the iron._

_“I would suggest you keep still.” The doctor crooned in his native tongue. “The more you move, the worse this gets.”_

_The prisoner’s thrashing ceased, but his whimpers remained. The doctor continued to laugh above him, digging inside his abdomen. The prisoner soon lolled his head to the side, averting his eyes from the doctor’s sadistic expression. However, his aversion did not go unnoticed._

_“You dare look away from me while I speak to you, sir?”_

_The prisoner tightly clenched his eyelids shut. Wet tears formed at the corners in thick blobs. Chuckling, the doctor removed the wet scalpel from the prisoner’s gaping stomach, and slid it across his streaming tears, smearing blood across his pale cheek._

_“You're only making this harder for yourself, my friend.”_

_With a loud slam, the doors of the laboratory flew open. Several men in jet-black uniforms entered, one carrying a large case in hand. The soldier in question stepped towards him, and placed the said case on the metal table across from the doctor. The soldier then faced the doctor directly, his black-gloved hands cupped together promptly below his abdomen._

_“Doctor Alois-”_

_The doctor shook his head. “Please sir, Jakob is fine.”_

_Quickly the soldier corrected himself, “Doctor Jakob,” he gestured to the case, “A gift, from the_ _Führer_ _.”_

_Jakob removed his gloves, sanitized his hands, and stepped towards the case. His hands grazed its sides, gently flicking the locks, and pulled open the top. Jakob’s eyes glistened, excited once they met with the case’s contents. It was an assortment of various vials of chemicals and medical tools, all lined neatly within the container. He was eager to test their worth. They would be of quality, Jakob was sure. The_ _Führer wouldn’t bestow him useless ornaments._

_“Does the Führer request anything of me? These tools are very… specific.” Jakob turned to the suffering prisoner shaking on the operation table, a wicked glint shining in his eyes._

_“Of course.” One of the soldiers responded. “He expects you to finish what you began, doctor. But you have contributed so much to our cause already, he simply wishes to reward you for your triumphs.”_

_His triumphs. Jakob beamed. Indeed, he has spent hour after agonizing hour working on one of his most ambitious experiments to date. Arguably, no- certainly, it was an experiment he had only ever dreamed of performing, one he’s awaited since the beginning of his long medical career._

_And it has been long, indeed._

🜚

  
  


Zwickau, Saxony, East Germany

May 31st, 1968

6:15 PM

Jakob saw the Soviet vehicles and their red-starred soldiers before they even arrived at his manor. They marched proudly so, with their heads held high. Citizens hastily parted from crowds as they approached, stomping across the streets. Quickly pulling the curtains closed, he threw on his coat and hat and grabbed his suitcases. Downstairs he sprinted; rushing, respiring, and fleeing out of his back door. The doctor disappeared into the evening dark, holding his hat close to his head. His ears caught the barks of hounds on the hunt, searching for a man, a criminal. Him. 

He expected them to show once again, eventually. He’s out-witted the Soviets before. He’ll certainly do it again.

When the German Empire lost the second World War, and the Nazi regime crumbled away, any men or women associated with the heinous operation were hunted, imprisoned, or executed- innocence of any real evil or not didn’t matter. Indeed, “Innocent” in the same statement as “Nazi” seems absurd, yet it was true for many of the prisoners accused of war crimes against Europe. In fact, many of the _real_ offenders were still out there, hiding inside their underground bunkers in Asia and South America, while the inductees were paying the price for their evils. Just as the Romans forcibly inducted tribesman and city-states into their empire, Nazi officials made spies and agents out of poor, unwilling German citizens. Should they refuse the tasks given to them, grave consequences awaited- whether spending time behind thick steel bars or witnessing bullets tear through the heads of their loved ones.

Jakob himself was responsible for many of the inductions. His knowledge of the human body rendered him the perfect torture artist for the regime.

Did he take pride in his skill? Of course.

Did he enjoy the praise and recognition? Absolutely.

Did he support the dictatorship’s claws digging into his fatherland?

His opinion on how and what his superiors did was irrelevant, and they made that perfectly clear when he spoke of anything other than his work.

🜚

Hidden away on the outskirts of Zwickau was a safehouse, with supplies and a radio Jakob could use to contact his strayed abettors, wherever they were hiding. Truthfully, Jakob wasn’t sure if this long-awaited plan was even worth the effort at this point. He had plenty of opportunities beforehand to flee, and yet he stayed put, squandering under different faces and identities. When the first persecution burned through his colleagues, he was warned. It was foolish to stay, he _had_ to leave if he wanted any luck in beginning a new life... And yet Jakob refused. 

_'The ones who are running are the ones getting caught,'_ he had argued, _'_ _That’s what they want us to do. They would never expect us to stay, they expect us to run. That's how they find us.'_

Now, at his wit’s end, he wasn’t so sure he could abide anymore.

It was 10 o’clock sharp when Jakob finally reached the safehouse. Deep in the forest and tucked into the Erzgebirge mountains, the house was a downsize from his former estates, but it was big enough to be comfortable, at the very least. It was decent enough to be someone’s vacation home. With a tired sigh, Jakob unlocked the safehouse door and stepped inside. To his left stood a hat and coat rack, where Jakob placed his bowler and trenchcoat. Perhaps, he then thought, before contacting anyone, he could get some well-deserved rest. Turning around, Jakob expected to find a ham-radio, where an abettor said it would be.

Instead, his eyes fell upon a pair of legs.

A woman’s legs, in black sheer stockings, and white heels on her small feet.

Slowly Jakob’s eyes trailed upward, searching for the face these legs belonged to. She sat prominently on the table where the mentioned ham-radio was, with her small interlocked hands resting on her lap and a black bag underneath them. She wore a pale white skirt and thick black furry coat, with a violet insignia pinned on the right breast pocket, a symbol Jakob did not recognize. He focused on her face, then, where her dark red lips were curved into a seemingly mischievous smile. His blue eyes finally locked with her green ones, half-lidded and focused directly onto him. She brought a hand to her face and pressed a delicate finger on her nose bridge, adjusting her white-rimmed glasses and pushed back strands of her jet-black hair out of the way. She appeared to be French, or maybe English, Jakob had thought. With her high-class appearance, she certainly was not from the east. But when she finally spoke to him, her voice was far from what Jakob expected.

“You seem stunned.”

_American._

An American had found his safehouse. An American _woman._

At most, she was a spy, which truthfully wasn’t much of a threat. Jakob had dealt with spies before, although most of them were men. A woman being used in situations like this wasn’t too much of a surprise. Most wouldn’t expect a woman to be a threat, which to the boss’, was a good thing. Smooth honeyed words, seductive language, and sultry behavior were a perfect distraction.

_A distraction._

Jakob felt every sense in his body spike as he closely watched her movements. He’s been in this scenario. 

He could easily dispose of her.

“If you’re trying to find a way to get rid of me, there’s no need, doctor. I‘m not here to turn you in.”

Jakob paused. “ _Aber_ \- Ahm, but you are a spy, are you not?”

“A spy, yes. For the United States Government? No.”

Something about this was very wrong. How did she know about him or his contacts? How did she _get_ here? Surely she had to know something that was government classified information, things that were unobtainable otherwise. 

Unless-

“You’re an operative adversary.” Jakob thought aloud. “But for whom?”

She laughed. “That’s what I’m here for, doctor.” 

From her bag, she pulled out a thick packet and eyed him once again. She explained he was wanted, _needed,_ for a hidden operation in the United States. He would be serving as a medic, his job would be to keep his men alive. Jakob argued that, while he was a doctor, he was much better at hurting individuals rather than helping them. The adversary didn’t react to the remark as he wanted, instead claiming that those skills would be useful for other situations. She further explained that everything surrounding this project was clandestine and shielded from the American public. The reason was, as expected, undisclosed even from the adversary herself, or so she said. Jakob thought extensively on the offer. To him, it sounded almost perfect; he could escape the union, Europe itself, and not have to worry about being tracked down anymore. He could finally begin again.

But that was just the issue.

“Madame, you do realize who I am, yes?”

She pulled her bag to her chest, buckled it closed, and replied, “Of course I do, doctor Alois Jakob Ludwig.”

“Then you must know the trouble that I am in, my… ehm, history.”

“The pasts of our mercenaries are irrelevant, doctor. As long as you do your job and behave, you’re fine.” She slid down from the table and swung her bag over her shoulder. “If anything comes up, we’ll have it handled.”

Jakob almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This woman acted as if-

“Gather what you need, I have a private pickup planned around the valley, across that river. You have less than an hour.” She stepped out the door, “My name is Ms. Pauling, by the way.”

With that, she left, closing the door behind her. 

The doctor stood in silence. It was… a lot to take in. How often is one offered such a blessing in a time like this? How frequent is it that a coincidence occurs like that? How...

How ironic.

With every life he had taken, with every soul he had destroyed, with every shaken body and stricken face, with every being he had abused and left suffering in dark, infested, disease-ridden prison cells, 

Yet _he_ was given a second chance.

He couldn't help but laugh. _Redemption,_ in helping keep _others_ alive. For a moment, Jakob thought he almost believed in God. 

He would have called him a fool.

🜚


	11. Meet: The Sniper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got the flooring done in my house! Looks super nice.
> 
> Read the tags! This one's a little different.
> 
> Anyways, after Meet The Spy, character introductions will be done, and the real story begins!
> 
> Next: Meet the Spy

_Sunbury, Victoria, Australia_

_October 2nd, 1941_

_5:06 PM_

_It was probably the worst place to be doing this, but he didn’t care. Not at the moment._

_Not while she absolutely glowed above him like that._

_She had pushed him into the hay bale, giggling and tickling her little nose against his cheek and neck. They were stowed away in his family’s old barn, hidden in the loft above the cow pens, though there were no cows in there at the moment. The pens were cleaned days ago, and about a month before, the cows were transported somewhere else anyway- making the old barn the perfect getaway spot for the sneaky teenagers. This was the fifth- Sixth? Eighth?- time they’ve snuck around here, and he supposed it wouldn’t be the last, either. She was having too much fun with this._

_She pushed against him, running her slender hands through his dark hair, teasing her lips against his before finally leaning in. He let her do as she pleased._

_"Mmhm! Evie-"_

_She giggled against his lips, "Quiet, Ricky."_

_Somehow, she knew just how to handle him. Each day they were here, Rick would submit all power to her. She wasn’t the rough type, no, she just loved to have control over the game. It was playful, really. She was mischievous, but it was a light-hearted kind of mischief._

_Today, Evie was feeling extra mischievous._

_She pulled away from the kiss and trailed her lips from his mouth down to his neck. Rick shivered, her breath tickling against his skin as she trailed down his body. Evie brought her slender fingers to his waistband. A sudden feeling of discomfort began to build within him._

_“Evie-” Rick brought his hand to hers, but before he could gently nudge her, the impish girl grinned, and stroked his fingers._

_“Feeling alright, Ricky?” She asked._

_It was obvious that Evie was enjoying herself. There was a playful glint in her eye. Although he was nervous- ‘what was she planning?’- Rick didn’t want to upset her. She wanted this. He couldn’t stop her. Hesitantly, Rick swallowed the lump in his throat, and slowly nodded._

_Evie didn’t ask further._

_Her fingers glided across the fabric of his jeans. Rick winced, and shifted slightly. Evie glanced up to him again and paused, but the younger did not say anything. His heart was pumping through his chest. She had to feel it, right? Sweat trickled, glistening against his tan skin from the sun’s light shining through the cracks on the barn’s wall. His body temperature rose to distressing levels. She had to see it. She had to feel it. She had to._

_But instead, Evie smiled lightly at him, her eyes half-lidded and began to fumble with the buttons on his pants._

_Alarms blared in Rick’s head, a voice screamed ‘Say something!’_

_Evie persisted. He wouldn’t budge. Every muscle tensed. Stiff. Rick turned his head away from her, and attempted to focus on something else- anything else. Anything but this._

_Then, she stopped._

_Silence passed between them._

_Rick finally whispered, “Evie?”_

_The girl didn’t meet his eyes. She held her gaze low, frowning._

_“If something was wrong,” she mumbled, “...you should have said, Ricky.”_

_Again, Rick failed to respond. His throat held tight, unable to speak. Evie scowled, her cheeks flushing red, as if she held in a shout, or even a cry. Her hands roughly readjusted the boy’s jeans and quickly jerked away from him. She turned her body away and crossed her arms close to her. Rick sat up from the hay bale, propping his weight on his arms. His lips quivered tightly, but his eyes were fixed on Evie. He wanted to speak, but no words were forming._

_“...What’s goin' on with ya, Ricky?” Evie kept her voice low, almost whispering. “You’ve never acted like this before… If I messed up, all ya had to do was say.”_

_‘I know.’ he wanted to say, ‘There’s a lot I need to say,’ but Rick’s lips held silence._

_Evie slammed her hands onto the floors of the loft. Dust and dirt flew up and circled around in the air, and Evie raised her head to Rick, almost shouting “Please talk to me, Ricky. What did I do?”_

_Why was it so hard to speak? What kind of strength did she have over him that made it impossible to be upfront with her about things?_

_Why did she **intimidate** him? _

_“There’s… There’s nothin' wrong with ya, Evie…”_

_Her face fell to a solemn frown, “Then why're ya afraid of me?”_

_Was he afraid?_

_Every other boy in school was already doing this, so what made him any different? Why was he different? Why was he always conflicted when he was with her?_

_“I’m not…” Rick searched for the right words, “I’m not afraid of ya, It’s just…”_

_“If ya wanna wait, that’s alright.”_

_“No- I mean, yes, I want to wait, but- no-, I mean, I-” Rick stumbled over his words, “I just, I don’t want to… ever… with you… I-” but before Evie could speak, he continued, “I like ya a lot. You- You’ve always been a good person, always kept the other boys off of me- but-”_

_Evie placed her hand over Rick’s, moving her much smaller fingers between his larger ones, and asked, “Do ya just not want a relationship like that, Ricky? I don’t mind.” When Rick didn’t respond, she added, “Please, ya know ya can talk to me, Ricky. Ya know that, yeah? I won't tell a soul.”_

_“It’s- It’s not that I…” He sighed, and closed his eyes, tense he continued, “I just never thought about something deeper with… with a girl.”_

_Evie didn’t scowl or frown with disgust. She simply tightened her fingers between his, and stated,_

_“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”_

🜚

_“Lads, if the lot of you don’t get off my lawn, I_ _will_ _**make** you!” _

_“Eugene, wait-”_

_From the top floor of his two-story home, Richard Mundy could overhear the boiling argument. He sat on the carpet near the door and listened in, nervousness rising in the pit of his stomach._

_“Right then, ya sagging chrome-dome, let us talk to Ricky then we’ll go!”_

_Rick recognized the voice as Josiah Smith, and the boys speaking after him were his crew of wannabe rough-necks. If Evie were here, she’d have them gone in less than a minute, but she was at home. Great. But why were they at his house in the first place? What did they want?_

_And how did they-?_

_“You’re not getting anywhere near my son!”_

_“Eugene!”_

_A heavy thump, something shattered against the wall, and huge footsteps trailed outside. Rick quickly moved over to his window._

_His father had Josiah by the collar, shouting in his face. Josiah’s “friends” however, were simply standing by, watching him give Josiah a man’s lecture. This clearly didn’t sit well with Josiah, as a rage-filled scowl poured over his face, and a heavy fist smashed into Eugene's face. The older man returned the gesture, heavier, but Josiah kept coming at him. An older woman’s voice shouted, and Rick watched his mother stumbled onto the scene, attempting to break up the fight. But Josiah refused to quit. Gripping her neck, he forcefully shoved the woman away from him and roughly pushed her onto the ground. Eugene grabbed the boy’s arm-_

_Rick moved away from the window and shifted his gaze to the wall. There was an aching thought pulling at his brain, something that had tried to prove it’s point before. Every day for three years, every punch, every kick, every shouted slur, every passing moment, this thought had spoken to him, yet he ignored it. He ignored it all._

_Slowly, Rick reached for the handle of his closet door. Inside was his father’s sniper rifle. Old, yes, but reliable. He’s shot it multiple times before, on targets and small game._

_This time, it would be large game._

_He took the rifle into his hands and moved back to the window. He quietly slid it open, and raised the gun, moving his eye behind the scope._

_CRACK!_

🜚

  
  
TF. Industries

Spokane, Washington, USA

June 15th, 1968

5:00 PM

“Mr. Mundy?”

Rick’s eyes fixated on the violet-suited dark-haired woman standing across from him- Ms. Pauling, she had introduced over the phone a few days earlier. He remembered. 

“You drifted off for a few moments.” She spoke as she organized papers at her desk. “Would you like some coffee? I know how bad that jet lag can be.” She chuckled. “Or a nap could do. Would you like to continue this conversation tomorrow, Mr. Mundy?”

“Richard ‘s fine.” He slurred. “Or Rick. S’what m’ friends call me.”

Ms. Pauling’s cheerful expression fell. She studied Rick’s terribly exhausted demeanor, from the almost exaggerated darkness under his eyes to his deeply slouched sitting position. She recalls their secured conversation over the phone, how awfully tired he seemed. The looseness in his words and his weak projection were enough to know. Now, as he sits in front of her, Ms. Pauling can see it for herself. His presence was a story in itself. 

Ms. Pauling stepped from her desk, moving to the white couch where Rick sat. As she approached, she could smell the mixture of nature and strong alcohol. Rick’s eyes weakly followed her movements, staying on her face as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t trust you to make the trip yourself.” She spoke quietly. “Would you like a ride to the nearby hotel?” It wasn’t really a question. Ms. Pauling moved to grab his hand.

Rick rubbed his forehead with his free hand, groaning, “...But, what about…..”

“We can talk about work later, alright?” She helped the much taller man up from the couch, resting her other hand on his back. “You need to sleep this off before we do anything else.”

Rick attempted to pull away from her. “Nah… Ms. Paulin’, ya don’ have’ta-”

She opened the door to her office and guided him out of it. “I insist.”

A part of her wanted to offer Rick her own guest room- it would certainly make it easier to monitor him that way, but Ms. Pauling didn’t want to explain to her boss why she was housing an employee in her own home. There wouldn’t be a good enough excuse that _wouldn’t_ put him on mental health watch…

Then again, perhaps that would be a good thing.

She pressed the _‘Floor 1’_ button on the elevator, and waited. It dinged, and the doors slid open; a taller red-suited man stood inside. Quickly he looked up from the miniature novel he was reading.

“Ah, _Bonsoir_ Madame Pauli-” His eyes moved to the tall Australian accompanying her, and his pale face quickly scrunched in disgust. “ _Bon Dieu_ , what is that washed up dog!?”

“Be nice, Janvier.” Ms. Pauling chastised and stepped into the elevator.

Janvier swiftly avoided being anywhere near Rick as he attempted to exit. He did, but still brushed off his shoulders when he was freed of the Australian’s presence. Before the elevator could close, Janvier gripped the door and forced it back.

“I request that you wash before we meet.” he scowled.

Ms. Pauling rolled her eyes. “Please don’t- wait, meet?”

“Did you forget? Ms. Pauling, you really shouldn’t bother yourself with…” Janvier frowned, quickly eying Rick, “...other things.”

“Right, well I’ll look back over my calendar more often.” Annoyed, she leered at the Frenchman and sighed. “Now please, I need to hurry before I miss my scheduled shower.”

Janvier chuckled and moved his hand from the elevator door, turning on his heel as it closed.

It would be a bit of a wait. Ms. Pauling’s office was on one of the higher floors of the building. She passed a glance at the Australian, noticing his eyes were closed and his head rested lightly on her shoulder. She smiled, and looked away.

“He a friend of yours?” Rick drawled.

Ms. Pauling jumped, startled by his sudden words. “N- Uh, yes, yes he is.”

“I don’ like ‘em.”

“Hah!” Ms. Pauling laughed aloud, “I don’t either.”

At that, she noticed, he smiled.

  
  
  
  


🜚


	12. Meet: The Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last character introduction! The next chapter will begin the actual story.

TF. Industries

Spokane, Washington, USA

June 15th, 1968

6:02 PM

Sliding her card into the reader, the door to Ms. Pauling’s office swung open, and she entered to see Janvier sitting patiently across from her desk. With his left leg crossed over his right, and his hands at rest on his black slacks, Janvier peered up at her, wearing his casual shitfaced grin. 

“ _Bonsoir_ , Madame Pauling. You’ve returned.” He greeted, although it was more like mockery. Ms. Pauling ignored his attempt at angering her, however.

“You knew where I was going, and I told you I’d be back.”

“Of course.” He smirked. “I expected nothing less.”

Ms. Pauling circled him, moving to her chair behind her desk and taking a seat. She scooted up closer and grabbed some papers from the miniature filing cabinet below the desk. “Good, because if you did, we’d have a problem.”

“Nonsense. I’ve known you for quite some time, madame. You are better than that.” Janvier lifted his gloved hand and moved to the pocket on his black coat. “Afterall-”

A hand slammed against the wooden desk Janvier froze in place. Ms. Pauling frowned, and eyed the Frenchman rather intently. “Not. In. Here. I’ve told you that a million times, Janvier!” As he stood up and walked towards the window, she continued, “You must not know me too well if you keep trying to smoke in my office even after I’ve told you that you couldn’t.”

Janvier opened the window and pulled his cigarette case from his coat pocket. He picked one out and slipped it between his smirking lips. He switched the case with his lighter. Almost graciously, he ignited the end of the cigarette, and the lighter disappeared into his pocket once again.

Ms. Pauling rubbed her fingers between her brows. “Why do you do this to me?”

“Your reactions are worth the trouble I go through.”

“Annoying me?”

“ _Oui_ ”

“I cannot stand you.”

“Understood.”

Ms. Pauling sighed and quickly flipped open the packet she had grabbed earlier. “Let’s just get this over with, Janvier.” 

The Frenchman took a long drag of his cigarette, then responded, “I do not understand why they told you to interview me when I have _worked_ for this company before. They have what they need to know.”

“Maybe they need an update.” She suggested.

“If it is the same as what I recall, nothing has changed. Filling it out again would be pointless.”

Ms. Pauling rolled her eyes. “Then come here and see. Don’t be difficult- Throw that out the window before you walk over here!”

Swiftly Janvier tossed the cigarette away, and moved to Ms. Pauling’s desk with a smile. 

  
  


🜚

TF. Industries

Spokane, Washington, USA

June 20th, 1968

3:13 PM

It wasn’t as if Janvier hated the younger woman. Her presence was more entertaining to him, if anything. She was young, bright, and full of ambition. She had not yet been roughened by the industry; she doesn’t quite know the stress and pressure of working in this tense operation, “tense” being an extreme understatement; it was downright exhausting. The golden word was _“yet,”_ and Janvier knew it wouldn’t be long before it eventually caught up to her. 

That being said, Janvier had to admit, Ms. Pauling was far better company than this… _wretch._

“Sit down, Janvier.” The old crone groaned.

_Dieu_ , her voice was a harlot’s nails scratching against sheet metal. Janvier had to stop himself from cringing. Nevertheless, the Frenchman complied, and responded, “Madame, if you do not mind, I would like to ask-”

“Silence.” She frowned rather strongly, “The only person who speaks during this meeting is me, I will hear nothing from you until I am done. Am I understood?”

The chair grated as Janvier relaxed himself. With an expression of boredom, he nodded and quickly a thought crossed his mind, _You will hear something from me one day, putain..._ but Janvier knew when to hold his tongue. 

With his Administrator, it was often.

“I’m sending you to New Mexico.” She explained. “You’ll be stationed on one of our larger facilities. Living necessities are already in place, you will be adequately accommodated for. Your operation is to monitor our newest recruits. Pauling has assured me that their skills are satisfactory, and I want you to _ensure_ this claim. Keep them in line, Janvier, and be sure they understand protocol. The last thing we want is… slip-ups.” Her expression darkened. “You know how we handle _mistakes_ here, Janvier.”

The Frenchman grimaced. Again. It seems she’s taken a liking to humiliating him over his past, as of recently. _Why did she keep bringing it up?_ Janvier felt that he has done more than enough to make up for it- which at the time, it appeared she had been appreciative of his efforts. This woman- no, this _witch_ made no sense whatsoever, and Janvier almost couldn’t bear it anymore.

But at the thought of his contract, the one thing binding him to this dreadful woman, ending in less than a year, he couldn’t help but internally chuckle. It wouldn’t be much longer, and he could finally rejoin his confrères in Bordeaux. 

“Pauling is waiting for you outside.” She concluded, and shooed him away. “You are dismissed. Begone.”

He didn’t hesitate. Quickly Janvier stood, and made for the double doors exiting her office. In his fiery annoyance, he didn’t notice the dark halls at first. Several doors were locked, ceiling lights were either off or dimmed. Afterhours. Was it really that late? He couldn’t recall the meeting taking up so much time, but perhaps he was mistaken. Janvier reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

New Mexico. Despite having worked various jobs in the United States, Janvier did not know much about America. Born in Amiens, he was a Frenchman, a foreigner. When he heard “New Mexico,” he pictured desert; dry, barren, endless sand for miles, and an awful heat streak. _Magnifique._

Although the thought of being stuck in a scorching desert for God-knows-how-long only strengthened his sour attitude, Janvier found himself wondering more strongly on the thought of his new _companions_ that he was assigned to chaperone. What would they be like? Janvier only hoped his company would be tolerable, at the very least. And if not…

Even so, he was stuck with them, regardless of what may come. He’d have to endure it with a Frenchman’s pride, at least until his contract was complete. Janvier longed for the day that he could turn on his heels with a smile, and never look back to this wretched country. The smallest thought of such a day could brighten his mood. 

“Janvier!” 

A woman’s voice called, and Janvier was pulled back to the present. Quickly he recognized the light pitch as Ms. Pauling. She stood near the driver’s side of her car, holding the door wide open and waving to him.

“We’re stopping by your flat first.” She continued as he approached her vehicle. “Grab whatever and make it quick. We’re working on short time.”

Janvier was stunned for a moment. How did he manage to reach the parking lot so quickly?

“I only bring necessities on the job, I won’t be long.” He responded, running his gloved finger across the car’s detailing.

“You’d probably want to bring more than just necessities. You’re going to be there for a while.”

He raised a brow. “How long?” _Surely it couldn’t be much_ , he thought.

Ms. Pauling seemed a little reluctant to answer. “However long it takes, Janvier.”  
  


Janvier frowned, and gripped the car door’s handle, almost slinging it open. If Ms. Pauling hadn’t known her response was less than satisfactory, this was a clear sign. She earned his ire. 

“Translation, “ _I don’t know_ .” That is what I heard, Ms. Pauling.” Janvier sneered. “I can promise, you will not keep me there forever.” _Only a little longer._

Ms. Pauling did not respond as she moved into the driver’s seat. Janvier considered this a cue to end the discussion, but not without him claiming victory over the dispute, of course. She twisted the key, shifted gears to back out, and something crossed Janvier’s mind once again.

“Why couldn’t I take my _own_ vehicle, Madame Pauling?”

She almost forced her foot on the brakes. His tone was clearly that of mockery. Ms. Pauling, with a deep scowl on her face, turned to Janvier. “It… is protocol. Security reasons.” She practically hissed through her teeth. “You. Know. This!”

With that notorious shitfaced grin, Janvier glanced to look out the window. He moved his arm down to the window’s crank handle and rolled it down. “Of course I do, I am not a fool.”

“Don’t you dare pull out a damn cigar- Janvier!”

Of course, Janvier knew he’d prevail; his confidence was perennial and unwavering. He was a natural definition of success. He had hardly- no, he’s never failed, not truthfully. Janvier had reasons behind the “mistakes” he’s made. At the time he had done these things, he did not realize he would regret it. If one believes what they are doing is right, did that truly make their actions faults? Could one be held accountable for their personal truths? 

Janvier would endure, he was sure of that much. He would abide by that witch’s terms until his dismissal, and that kept his pride strong. That was something they couldn’t possibly take away from him.

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter. I wouldn't give his background away so easily! He IS the Spy, after all.


	13. Ain't That A Kick in the Head?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! So finally, here's the first chapter of the actual story! 
> 
> I really appreciate feedback, so anything from praise to criticism is fine with me. I love critique, so please let me know what you think! (And if you see any mistakes, it's difficult beta'ing this stuff myself) 
> 
> Thank you, and stay safe!

New Mexico, USA

June 19th, 1968

11:43 AM

New Mexico was quite a flight from Massachusetts, even with this ridiculous technology that TF. Industries had at their disposal. Jeremy had never been on a plane before. Hell, he hardly ever left Boston itself- minus one occasion or two. Even so, he _knew_ regular planes did not fly that quickly. The second Jeremy laid eyes on the ginormous machine, he didn’t recognize it as a normal airplane. It was huge- almost abnormally so- painted sleek cherry red, with large turbines and a vast wingspan... like that of those flying dinosaurs Jeremy remembered seeing at the Smithsonian museum- (they scared him for some reason, no he did not like those dinosaurs _at all)_ \- so the aforementioned thought only increased his extremely anxious feeling towards this machine. With wide eyes, Jeremy swore to Ms. Pauling that he was _not_ stepping on that plane, though Ms. Pauling made it clear that she wasn’t going to argue by kicking him through the plane’s doors and swiftly strapping him in a seat. 

Much to Ms. Pauling’s expectation, Jeremy passed out along the way.

Upon arriving at the outpost, (and when Jeremy finally regained consciousness) Ms. Pauling had to practically drag him off the plane. She found it surprising; at first, the boy refused to get on the plane, now he won't get off? Surely he’d want off as soon as possible, right?

Jeremy kicked at her, gripped the armrests, and resisted her attempts at pulling him from the seat and cursed up a storm. Ms. Pauling considered herself a patient woman, but Jeremy was wearing it rather thin. 

“No- No! Nuh-uh, let me go! You ain’t gettin’ my ass outta dis seat!”

Ms. Pauling tightened her hold on his wrist, and almost begged, “Jeremy, let’s go! Come on! Everyone is waiting-”

“I don’ care who’s waitin’! You go on, I’m sittin’ right here! You can’t tell me what to do!”

“What- You cannot be serious, Jeremy! I’m literally your boss!”

The childish defiance that Jeremy had was almost unbelievable; she wondered if it was even real, or if he was doing this on purpose. Perhaps he was tempting her to do something brash, or maybe just a challenge to her authority? There was a familiar feeling at that moment that Ms. Pauling couldn’t pinpoint.

“Look, you’re hungry, right?” She offered as genuine of a smile as she could muster. “The food trucks came in yesterday, there should be some real good stuff to choose from!”

Jeremy’s struggle against her grip lessened. “Well… d’ya got cheap burgers at this joint?”

“I said good stuff, Jeremy.”

The boy scoffed with a smile, “Hah! You don’ know good until ya’ve had a poor man’s burger. Ma made the best ones.”

🜚

He finally stepped off the plane, but when his foot landed on the dusty ground below, Jeremy felt his blood pressure skyrocket- if it was even possible for it to get any higher. Technically, he almost had a heart attack _before_ he even got on the plane; either way, he was positive it wasn’t healthy-

Oh, God. The _heat!_ He was already sweating. It was like standing in the dead center of a fire pit, a _dramatic_ change in temperature than the comfort inside the plane. Jeremy quickly wiped his forehead and stepped away from the machine. A sudden tingly, stabbing feeling rose behind his eyes. Rubbing his temple, Jeremy scowled. Out of all the previous opportunities to get a migraine- _was that a goddamn castle?_

_Surrounded by a mile-long electric fence the height of a skyscraper?_

Ms. Pauling stepped in front of him and gestured towards the giant building- or was it a collection of buildings? Was this the “fortress” she spoke so ecstatically about? 

“This is RED’s West Outpost.” She explained. “A few of BLU’s men were seen nearby, so we’re placing you here first. Eventually, you’ll be rotated with the others, but for now...”

“There’s others?” Jeremy asked. “So it’s not just me an’ these nine other dudes?”

She nodded. “Of course. We can't have an army with only nine men. But, you’re being placed with the group I selected you for.”

Jeremy hummed. As Ms. Pauling began moving toward the large wire fence, he quickly followed behind and continued to make conversation. “So does this place have a name? Or is it just ‘West Outpost?’ Sounds kinda lame.”

“Dustbowl.”

“Oh, _fun_. I love… dust. Scorching heat. An’ cactuses, an’… rattlesnakes.” Jeremy grimaced, turning his head to look around. “Ya know, dis kinda looks like those western cowboy shows my ma likes t’ watch…”

The two approached the fence gates. Ms. Pauling opened the almost hidden black box near the pillar closest to the left gate. She removed a little card from her bag, - her I.D- and swiped it across the reader. She chuckled. “Not as exciting as those films though, is it? No gunfights on horseback, no outlaws to hunt,” She placed the card back in her bag. “No cute small-town girls to romance?”

“Heh,” Jeremy moved to rub his hand through his hair instead, an awkward little smile crossed his face. “I dunno about all dat.” 

A loud hiss, and the gates slid open. Jeremy stared in awe at the massive size of the clustered and towering buildings. It almost reminded him of Boston, the enclosed feeling of skyscrapers and high towers- but Boston’s highways weren’t dirt roads, dust didn’t fly every time you took a step, and the heat was never scorching enough to fry an egg on the hood of your car. 

Ms. Pauling nudged him, and stepped towards the other residents of this “miniature city.”

Two older men, one a bit shorter than the other, sat at a table outside of a mid-sized building, possibly a bar, with drinks in their hands. One man dressed in a ballistic uniform with a full-face helmet stood beside them, engaged in the conversation as well. Across from them, a giant muscular man stood, seemingly observing the three. Farther down the road, although a little hard to see, there was a guy in a full-body suit sat criss cross-legged on the ground surrounded by plush toys. They were all dressed in red uniforms, altered for their specific class function.

“Gentlemen,” Ms. Pauling greeted them. The men’s attention quickly turned to her. “Please meet the final member of your team; the Scout.” She gestured to Jeremy.

The larger man at the table sat down his drink. “Ms. Pauling,” he spoke up in a very gruff voice, “I didn’t sign up to babysit someone’s brat.” 

The helmeted man nodded in agreement. “Aye, why’re ye hirin’ 12-year-olds anyweh?”

Jeremy scowled and raised his fist. “Hey! I am not-!”

“You aren’t babysitting.” Ms. Pauling placed her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Scout is perfectly capable of handling his own.”

“Sure, sure.” The gruff-voiced man turned to the helmeted one. “Look at ‘em, not a single hair on his chin yet. Hardly a man.”

“Ah doubt ‘es even hit puberteh!”

The two men laughed, and Jeremy felt his face burning with anger, and the heat certainly added to his frustration. “Oh yeah, I bet it’s funny, ain’t it!?” He quickly grabbed a decent-sized rock from off of the ground. “I’ll show ya!”

“Soldier, look!” He gripped onto the larger man’s shoulder. “Boyo’s face is turnin’ red, like a fox’s arse!” 

They howled with laughter, neither man noticing a projectile flying their way. The rock slammed onto the helmeted man’s drink perfectly, shattering the bottle and splashing alcohol all over the two. 

Jeremy smirked. Soldier’s former laugh turned into a growl, but his anger only fueled the boy’s fire. “How’s that, huh? I bet none ‘a ya fat old asses can throw like that! That’s _Major League_ level stuff right there!”

“That was me bloody scotch, ya snotty little goblin!” The helmeted man huffed. “Ms. Paulin’, Ah thought ye said “no infightin’” or am Ah mistaken?”

“Technically this isn’t infighting.” She responded. “Besides, you got to see only a small example of what this, heh, _snotty little goblin_ is capable of!”

Although his face was concealed, the annoyance in his voice was apparent. “So yer jus’ gonna let me scotch be wasted?”

“Well,” A southern accent spoke up, “Maybe ya shoulda thought about that earlier, before ya decided t’ pick on the youngin’.”

Jeremy’s eyes met with bright blue ones. A blonde-haired man with goggles pushed up atop his head, the shorter one of the two at the table, was slouched over said table with a rag in his hand, cleaning up the alcohol.

“You still called him a _youngin._ ” Soldier imitated the Texan drawl.

“I’ve seen youngins do more work than some adults will in a lifetime, Soldier.”

The helmeted man laughed. “Jus’ because a lad can shovel up sheep shite an’ make some coin doesn’ mean he’s a man.”

“That ain’t what I-”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Ms. Pauling decided it was best to end it before it escalated any further. She turned back to the path leading through the fortress, with Jeremy following behind.

🜚

It was difficult to bring all of them together in one room, but Ms. Pauling managed it. Though, they compromised by keeping at _least_ 5 feet between each of them- except for the Engineer, the Soldier, and the Demoman, who seemed to get along pretty well with each other already. 

Ms. Pauling referred to the room as the “ _commons,_ ” which is really just the first floor of the two-story building that has the barracks in it. Basically, it was an oversized living room that was connected to an equally oversized kitchen. Jeremy wondered what was with these people (as in, TF. Industries) and making everything so… uncomfortably big.

Jeremy himself pulled a chair up from the kitchen and sat near the _commons area’s_ couch, but still kept a good amount of space between. Engineer, Soldier, and Demoman sat on said sofa, discussing something that Jeremy had no idea about and really didn’t care to know, anyway. 

A sudden thought popped up, and Jeremy realized those were the only names he knew at the moment. 

Across from them, a pale-skinned, dark-haired, and sharp blue-eyed man with little round glasses sat with his legs crossed in a rather comfy looking chair. The gigantic man Jeremy had seen earlier made no effort to sit, instead standing behind the couch and the chair, arms crossed and bearing a brooding expression on his face. Once again choosing the floor over an actual seat was the strange guy in the full-body suit. Jeremy counted each of them, and determined that there were, in fact, only 7 mercenaries in the room, including himself. _Weren’t there supposed to be 9?_

Clearing her throat, Ms. Pauling gained the mercenaries’ attention and stepped into the center of their unintentionally-made circle.

“First, I am proud that each of you managed to go this long without killing each other, or at least roughing someone up.” She smiled at the few chuckles she got from that. “Second, and I hate to say it, but this is probably the last time you’ll see me for a while. My orders were to recruit, brief, and send you on your way. I will, however, visit occasionally, so don’t be too upset, I’ll come back.” She chuckled. “So, I’ll go over the most important rules one last time: 

One, _no_ personal information! No names, birthdays, addresses, none of that. You use your class names. Two, no infighting. I don’t care if you get pissed off, punch a pillow or something. Three, no contact with outside sources unless cleared to do so. And Four, no wandering outside of the outpost unless, again, you’re cleared. Understood?” 

She paused for the collective ‘yes ma’ams’ or in someone’s case, ‘yeah whatever,’ then continued, “Good. I hope you all get to know each other! You’re going to be working as a team, and that’s the most important- ...yes Scout, what is it?” 

“Um, do we all share a bathroom?”

Ms. Pauling sighed. “Yes, the washrooms and toilets are all in one room-”

As she expected, a sudden collection of gasps and swears erupted from the circle.

“What!?” Soldier yelled, slamming his hand on the armrest of the sofa. “You mean to tell me-”

“That we have’ta look at each othah _nekid_!?” 

“Well no one said ya _had_ to, that would be yer own fault.” Engineer laughed.

Soldier huffed. “Bullshit! I want my own bathroom!”

Ms. Pauling raised her hands. “Wait, wait, wait! Hear me out!”

“ _Mein Gott_ , as much money as this enterprise makes, you could not afford to give us private washrooms? I do not want to share with... _them._ ” 

The commons fell silent. Light footsteps moved from the darker side of the room and towards the circle, as did the strong smell of cigarette smoke and condescending arrogance. A tall masked man, who’s suit and hat appeared rather expensive, finally emerged into the light.

“As much as I hate to say it,” he said, “I have to agree with the German. _Sérieusement,_ Madame Pauling, this is arguably the worst decision they have ever made.”

Ms. Pauling groaned. “Can I please explain _why_ the decision was made in the first place?” 

“Of course!” The Frenchman smirked, “Who is stopping you?” 

“Everyone, apparently!” She rolled her eyes. “Look, the bathrooms are always the hot spots for trouble, since there are no security cameras in there... for obvious reasons. So, it was decided that if there was only _one_ giant washroom that everyone would use, suspicious activity would lessen, and there wouldn’t be any issues. Fewer issues, anyway. Make sense?”

Murmurs, mumbles, and more curses. Ms. Pauling swore she wouldn't get a better response then that from any of them at this point. 

“I am used to sharing washroom with other men.” The giant man spoke with a deep rumble, “Had to do it before. I have no problem with it.”

Good enough. Ms. Pauling brought her wrist to eye-level to check the time. “Alright, I have to run.” With quick steps, she moved for the doors. “Please be good, alright? And get along! Remember, you’re a team!”

The doors slammed shut, and she was gone. For good this time, at least until she came back, which wouldn’t be for a while. Once again, the room fell silent. Each mercenary eyed each other, holding their tongues until the right moment.

The Scout spoke first, “Why’re we all sittin’ around like dis is an Alcoholics Anonymous meetin’?”

“I _hated_ AA! Don’t bring it up!” Demoman groaned.

Curious, Engineer asked, “You went to AA?”

“Yes, an’ it sucked. Didn’ help.” Demoman stood up from the couch. “Speakin’ of alcohol, who wants t’ go find tha cellar? ‘m lookin’ to replace tha bottle that tha little _rat_ over there broke, maybe add two more onto it.”

Irritably, Scout frowned as he rocked his chair on the back legs. “Keep callin’ me names an’ every bottle I see ya with will have da same fate as da last, don’t try me. I can pitch from a mile away!”

Soldier stood up and joined Demoman out the door. “I’ll go, I’m thinking about finding something strong, anyway.” 

Eventually, the others cleared the room as well. Engineer went to the workshop with Pyro following behind, Medic left to organize the Medbay to _his_ particular conditions, Heavy left shortly after Medic did with no specification as to why, and Spy left before anyone knew he was gone. 

That left Scout, still sitting in the chair and leaning on its back legs. 

Ms. Pauling wanted them all to become friends. Scout wasn’t sure if he could do that. He wasn’t allowed to tell them barely anything about his life and vice versa, so how could they “get to know each other?” Baseball was a huge part of his life, something he was very passionate about. Was he allowed to talk about baseball? Would that give away too much information-

“Lad, if ya keep leanin’ like that, ya might break the chair.”

_Thunk!_

He saw stars for a solid ten seconds. Scout sat up, and realized that he had fallen backwards.

“Or that.” 

Gradually, boots thumped up to him, and stopped almost directly behind him. Scout turned around as best he could, and caught somewhat of a glimpse at number nine. Tall, lanky, dressed like an outdoorsman and for some reason was wearing sunglasses _indoors_.

“Need any help there?” He asked, offering a hand.

Scout grabbed the offered hand and the Australian lifted him from off of the floor. 

“Uh, thanks. You weren’ at the little meetin’ earlier, were ya?” Scout asked.

“I was, jus’ standin’ in the corner.” He pointed.

“Oh.”

“I wanted t’ tell ya, I saw that incident with Demoman when ya first arrived, I was up in m’ nest. Funniest shit I’ve seen in a while. Nice shot, mate.”

Scout grinned. _A genuine compliment already!_ “Heh! Those two were askin’ for it! Don’t judge a book by its cover, right? My ma used to tell me that a lot. See, I played baseball back in highschool, an’ I was actually one of the smaller boys on the team, so a lot of my teammates thought I wasn’t fit for it because I wouldn’t be able to bat good or catch right, or whatever stupid shit they were makin’ up; anyway, I had practiced for a long time, ever since I was little, and on our first game I was practically _carrying_ the whole damn team-” He paused. “Am I allowed to talk about this?”

“Ya didn’t say where you were from, what team ya played for or what school ya went to, so I think it’s alright.”

“Do you have anywhere to be?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“If I grabbed us some snacks, would ya mind if I talked to ya about baseball?”

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the legendary Dean Martin's 1960's hit, "Ain't that a Kick in the Head?"


	14. EXTRA: Papa's Got Dynamite!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely short mini-chapter with no plot development whatsoever, just a conversation between three soon-to-be bff's.
> 
> Takes place directly after the previous one.
> 
> This was originally part of the previous chapter, but didn't make the cut. I was debating on whether or not to keep it, but I liked it, so here's an extra.

“Agh, it’s all jus’ American shite- oh wait, here we go!”

Demoman moved over the crates, stacking them away from the few boxes of foreign alcohol. Soldier raised a brow at his remark.

“And what’s wrong with American whiskey, Demoman?”

“Not a damn thing!” He laughed “...except it’s too weak. A li'l babe could drink a whole bottle and still function! Hell, maybe a pack!”

With a sigh, Engineer took a small swig of his drink. “Didn’ know the purpose of alcohol was t’ become comatose.”

Demoman grabbed two bottles from the crate, “Aye, that’s tha fun part!” ...then popped one open. “Any ‘f ya lads brave enough t’ try tha foreign stuff?”

“I tend t' stick t' one thing, really.” Engineer responded, and moved to sit on a nearby crate.

Soldier took the second bottle from Demoman and glanced at Engineer. “I thought you were staying in the workshop today?”

“Nah, I jus’ unpacked a few things, then decided t’ see what you two fools were up to.” The Texan laughed.

Demoman slid away the mouthpiece on his helmet and flung his head back, guzzling down the whiskey. Engineer would have stood in awe at the Scotsman’s ability to gulp down whiskey that fast, if not for the extremely odd way Demoman was doing it.

“Demoman, the _hell_ are you doin’?”

The Scotsman pulled the bottle from his mouth and slid the mouthpiece shut. “Wot?”

“Wouldn’t it be a whole lot easier to just take yer helmet off?”

The Scotsman paused, but not quite with reluctance. Although neither Soldier nor Engineer could see his face, they could certainly feel his shifting gaze. Demoman’s demeanor seemed off, and Engineer felt a little bad for saying anything. If it happened to be a hard subject for him, if there was a reason he kept the helmet on…

“Aw hell,” The Texan frowned. “I didn’t mean t-”

Dismissively, Demoman waved his hand. “ _Chan eil,_ ’s okay! ’m not upset, ’m jus’ thinkin’.”

“What, you’re not a woman, are you?” Soldier chuckled.

“Hah,” Demoman reached for the bottom of his helmet, undoing a few small clasps. “If Ah was, Ah’d be tha ugliest woman t’ walk this planet!”

Still, Engineer wasn’t quite reassured. “If ya don’ wanna take yer helmet off, you don’ have’ta-”

Demoman lifted the ballistic helmet from his head and moved it under his arm. The two men standing across from him paused in place, staring back. He shifted slightly, leaning his weight onto the large crates nearby. Soldier glanced to Engineer, who seemed to be studying Demoman rather thoroughly. Quietly the Texan laughed, and said,

“An’ here I thought I’ve seen everythin’.”

The statement, "I'm from Scotland" paints a picture; a picture of a pale, muscular, and freckled man with wild, curly red hair, bright blue eyes, and an insatiable thirst for alcohol. Demoman fits the picture, for the most part. Switch pale with brown, red with dark, blue with green, and you'd have it.

It was strange. Demoman had brown skin, freckles, tufts of red within his black hair, and a green eye. Certainly not what Soldier nor Engineer had imagined underneath that helmet.

"Had ya fooled, dinn' I?" The Scotsman laughed.

"One hundred percent," said Soldier with a grin, "The ugliest woman I've ever seen!"

Beaming, Demoman placed his helmet down on a crate of Scottish whiskey and took a huge swig from his bottle.

"I've never seen a black man with green eyes before." The Engineer thought aloud.

Demoman chuckled. "Ah know, rather ghastly, innit?" 

"I'd prefer the word " _peculiar_." It's not horrifying. Interesting, actually." Engineer replied. "You were born in Scotland?"

"Fourth generation immigrant." Demoman replied promptly with a smile. "Mah great-grandmother was Ethiopian. She met a lad, a pale red-headed freckled one, who was stayin' there with a group of... uh, what're- oh, archeologists, who were studyin' some historical sights nearby. She fell in love with those green eyes, an' wanted to marry 'em." Waving his bottle with every sentence, he continued, "Well, turns out the lad fancied that pretty ebony villager anyhow, an' with her father's blessin', they married. Turns out my granny's da was an aspirin' scientist himself, an' his new in-law happened to know some mighty figures back in Europe, an' so he travelled back home with his lady's family in tow. My great-great granda specialized 'n chemistry, an' made dynamite 'n medicine 'n all sorts of useful li'l compounds for people all over the continent." Demoman took another swig, "Now, 'f course, he had some trouble here 'n there, but he din' complain to ah soul, 'n he din' let it stop 'em. He an' some friends settled down in Glasgow, met with some kind businessmen there, an' partnered up. Few generations later, here ah am, makin' bombs for a multi-billion-dollar enterprise an' lovin' it." 

"Impressive." Soldier mused. "All I know of my family's history is that my grandpa was from Poland, or Slovakia… someplace in eastern Europe. I was named after him."

"Well darn," Engineer chuckled, "I dunno where the hell my family came from. Too many different people from too many different places." 

Demoman finished off the drink, and flipped the empty bottle around in his hand. "That's usually how it is for Americans, isn' it? 'S called the "Melting Pot" fer a reason. Ya have all kinds've blood runnin' through ya."

The Texan hummed, and stood up from the crate, moving towards the cellar's exit. "Heh, now you've got me thinkin'. Whenever we're done here, I ought to see how far I can trace my family back."

Soldier followed behind, and flicked off the cellar's lights when he reached the door. Demoman tossed his empty bottle into a nearby trashcan, grabbed his helmet, and quickly caught up with the other men. 

"Ah'd have to be there for that," Demoman replied, rushing to reach their pace. "Ah'd _luv_ t' know if we're related, Engie!"

The Engineer chuckled. "Engie?" 

"'S easier t' say," Demoman replied. "En-gi-neer has three syllables. Ya realize how hard it is t' say those words when yer drunk? If Ah need help, Ah hafta be able t' say yer name!"

"Barely known each other a week and we've already got nicknames." Soldier laughed.

With a smile, Engineer shook his head. "Sounds like he's signin' me up t' be the designated driver."

"Hm, help him make it to the toilet when he's too shitfaced to walk." Corrected Soldier.

Demoman slapped his hands on the other men's shoulders. "Nah, Ah am not gonna use ya lads like that! Jus' when Ah need th' help!"

"Isn't that what friends are for?" Soldier replied. "Only come around when they need something?" 

Demoman paused for a moment, then responded, "Aye, y' know what? Yer absolutely right, Solly."

Engineer cocked a brow. "You two must've had some terrible friends."

"Aye, Engie!" Demoman turned to the Texan. "Mind if we made a trip t' the 'shop? Ah wanted t' see if ya could help out a visually impaired lad with somethin'."

"Sure," Engineer replied, grinning. "I was goin' that way, anyway." 

🜚


	15. Set the Night on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I hope everyone is fairing well.

Charlottesville, Virgina, USA

June 21st, 1968

7:07 PM

In the late 19th century, a wealthy British-Virginian man's estate burst into flames at an ungodly hour of the night, with him and his family inside, and the entire property was reduced to nothing but ashes atop the earth. Furniture, possessions, everything- all engulfed in the blaze, and not a single object was left behind- nothing but flickering cinders and charred bodies. Authorities investigated for almost a year, and when it all ended with no explanation, they were more than perplexed. Whatever caused the fire, the “how and why” of it all, was unclear. Superstitious folk warned that it was the act of an angry otherworldly force, that the family had angered a supernatural being, and the land had been cursed. Not everyone was convinced of such a thing, but the remains of the estate would be left untouched regardless, and the strange event would be later known as “ _The Revenant of C’ville,_ ” one of the most bizarre mysteries in American history.

With a black-gloved finger, she traced the edges of the old plaque, and patiently tapped her heel against the stone road underneath her. The overgrown property behind the fence certainly needed a landscaper to tend to it, but with all the abnormality surrounding the area, locals refused to touch anything that had to do with it. It was silly, she thought, that an entire town would tremble at the illusions of the naive- because that’s just what it was, illusions. She considered herself a practical and by-the-book kind of woman, and while the Charlottesville fire was most certainly an interesting case, there _is_ a logical explanation, even if it hasn’t been discovered yet. 

“Ms. Pauling.”

Pulled from thought, the young woman turned from the site and turned to the older woman approaching her. She smiled, and extended her hand to her. 

“Good evening, Administrator,” Ms. Pauling greeted.

“Likewise.” The crone replied. She glanced over the shorter woman’s shoulder, staring at the historic site for a moment, and Ms. Pauling noticed her normally neutral expression had turned into a deep scowl. The Administrator turned away, huffing, and gestured for the younger woman to follow. “Come, I asked to meet you for dinner, not fairytales, Ms. Pauling.”

Quickly Ms. Pauling gathered herself, fixing her dark hair, adjusting her glasses, and patting down her suit for wrinkles. “O- Of course! Where would you like to go, ma’am?”

“You will know when we get there.”

🜚

Without a word, the old woman lightly blew onto the hot pastry at the end of her fork, then brought it to her mouth. Across from her, Ms. Pauling sat silently, having not touched her plate yet. Instead, she waited for the older woman to begin the conversation she had brought her here for. So far the two women have only entered the rather exorbitant restaurant, ordered, and were now sitting in an almost uncomfortable silence. 

“You’ve done well so far, Ms. Pauling.” The crone spoke so suddenly.

Ms. Pauling perked up, then smiled. “Oh, ehm, thank you, ma’am.” 

“I assume you spoke to each of them personally.”

She nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“Your thoughts?”

“They seem nice, in their own way...” Ms. Pauling finally took a bite from her plate, chewed and swallowed before responding, “Not sure if they’d be able to work through this together, though.”

“They’ll learn.” The crone chuckled. “They have no choice.”

Quietly Ms. Pauling averted her gaze from her, looking down to her plate with no response. 

Bringing a pale napkin to her mouth, she cocked a brow at the younger’s sudden silence. “Is there a problem, Ms. Pauling?” 

“Oh, n- no ma’am. I was just thinking, I apologize.” She responded promptly.

“About?”

“Well…” Ms. Pauling quickly searched for a response. “Um, I thought-”

The old woman sighed. “If this is about those half-witted fools, Ms. Pauling, then I must make one thing clear: They are not your friends, they are your employees.”

“N- No ma’am, I wasn’t thinking about them,” She insisted, “I was thinking about that estate.”

However, this excuse did not seem to clear up her administrator’s ire. Ms. Pauling watched as her scowl remained unchanged, and hung her head, almost sinking into the restaurant’s booth. 

“I had to search for you today, Ms. Pauling. I asked you to wait at the crosswalk, but you decided to wander off, and to that ridiculous _sideshow attraction_ of all places.” The old woman scoffed and folded the napkin in her hand.

“...I’ve only heard about it,” Ms. Pauling attested, “And I’ve never been to Virginia before. I was interested, and... it was just down the road, I was going to go back.”

“You should not have left to begin with. You arrived for a formal meeting, and you abandoned it for tourism.” 

“I know,” Ms. Pauling apologized quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“As you should be.” The Administrator placed the folded napkin onto the table. “But I do not intend to scold you the entirety of this meeting. Your performance thus far has been satisfactory. I have little to reproach you for.”

Ms. Pauling nodded quietly.

“I wanted to ask if you would like another task.”

She would ask, but it wouldn’t be a question. Ms. Pauling knows this well. The crone’s insistences, regardless of how she stated it, are always orders, never requests.

“Of course.” Ms. Pauling replied. “ What would it be?”

“I must be brief here.” She claimed. “Details cannot be discussed in places like this. But it will be rather... different than what you are used to, a bit more complicated. Enjoyable, perhaps, for someone like yourself.”

Ms. Pauling was almost stunned. This woman had sent her around the world, to different cities and countries she’s never heard of, with the mission of obtaining information, retrieving items and people of interest, _killing_ people of interest… and yet she claims that things could be more “complicated” than that?

_How_ could it be more complicated, Ms. Pauling wondered then, and why was she changing her position in the first place? “Satisfactory performance” as she claimed, was hardly a reason. Ms. Pauling has only been with this woman for a few months, and from her previous job experience, promotions do not happen that quickly. 

“Silence, Ms. Pauling?” 

The young woman looked up, and with a small smile, she nodded. “I’m interested.”

“Good.” She stood up from the booth and waved over a waitress to their table, then began to stack the plates, stopping when she reached for Ms. Pauling’s. 

“You hardly touched your plate.” The crone glanced up at her. “If you were not hungry, you should not have ordered anything.”

Ms. Pauling stood up, looking down at her plate then up to her administrator. “Um, I… can take it to go, right?” The waitress arrived at their table, and Ms. Pauling quickly directed the question to her.

“Of course ma’am, would you like your drinks to go, as well?” The waitress grinned.

Ms. Pauling turned to the older woman. She waved her hand, and reached into her purse for her wallet. She placed a one hundred dollar bill onto the table, then turned to leave for the doors. Startled, the waitress looked to Ms. Pauling, who smiled awkwardly to her and said,

“Um, yes. Please.”

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a line in the 1967 hit, "Light my Fire" by The Doors.


	16. Stone the Crow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I hope everyone is doing well. 
> 
> No warnings, other than what has been mentioned before. 
> 
> Except that Medic is a real MeDICK, but I'm sure that has been established.
> 
> Sort of Engie-centric.

From his teammates’ bitter behavior and ragged voices of annoyance, Engineer had quickly determined that he was the _only_ one used to New Mexico’s scorching summer sun- aside from Sniper, it seemed, although he and the Australian rarely exchanged words, save for routine acknowledgments. Everyone else… they couldn’t seem to clamp their jaws about the weather.

Engineer had never been one to complain much about anything. Small inconveniences were best left ignored, and if you didn’t like something, you fixed it; that’s the philosophy he had been raised with. It’s what _everyone_ should be raised with, and his teammates’ pitiful behavior throughout these long hot days only further proved his point. That, however, was simply an opinion. Sometimes it’s best to keep those quiet, too.

They’ll get used to it eventually, the Texan thought. They had to if they were going to survive out here. Luckily some of them seemed to be dealing with it well. Soldier, Demoman, and Heavy switched to lighter clothing during the daytime- that involved stepping out in nothing but a kilt, in Demoman’s case. It’s only happened once. So far. 

On the other hand, Scout couldn’t seem to find any way to work around the heat. Periodically he’d abandon his position to “rest.” Engineer had suggested that bringing more than _one_ water bottle would probably be helpful, but Scout ignored him, and spewed fiery teenage-level sass when Engineer attempted to offer advice again. If it wasn’t his intentionally short “attention span” or blatantly rude mouth, it was Scout’s temper tantrums that irritated Engineer to no end. There have been moments where he wanted to step over and pop that boy in the mouth for behaving like an absolute child. Often Engineer wondered if Scout had any parental figure to correct him when he was growing up. Behaviorally, he certainly didn’t act like it- and combined with his youthful features, Engineer had begun to speculate that Ms. Pauling lied about Scout’s age on that paperwork. The boy clearly wasn’t fit to...

Engineer didn’t like to make bold assumptions about other people. As his father always said, “ _to_ **_assume_ ** _makes an_ **_ass_ ** _out of_ **_you_ ** _and_ **_me_** _.”_ So he kept his mouth shut and worked through the chaos. That didn’t stop him from thinking, though. Engineer had a tendency to keep a lot on his mind… whether that was good or bad depended on what he dwelled on. Well, the little _“situation”_ with Scout earlier that week lingered in his mind, and had actually given him quite an idea; one of the brightest he's had yet, Engineer believed. 

🜚

  
  


“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 21st, 1968

9:05 AM

Sometimes he’d get bored of operating on the garrison’s defenses, so the Engineer had felt rather excited when he began on a new project. For several days he had spent the majority of the early morning hours gathering materials. From his workshop’s storage, Engineer dragged out containers full of sheet, solid, and plated metal, along with his tall toolbox (fortunately, it had wheels) and pushed them to his side of the shop. Once he spread out the dark blue schematics, the Texan didn’t hesitate to finish what he started a week before. 

The metal he used was formed of steel, pure tungsten, titanium, and aluminum alloys, only a handful of the strongest metals on the planet; together they were mixed with chromium, a powerful metal used by the Chinese as far back as the Qin Dynasty, with which they forged some of the strongest weapons and armor of the ancient world, protected from corrosion to this day. The strength and resistance that these metals held were very beneficial to Engineer’s projects. He needed the strongest shielding to surround and protect his _elaborate_ technology, so he treated the metal shaping and building process as a delicate and tedious task. Since the wiring and programming itself took several days of work to complete, the time he put into these projects was extensive, but in the end, Engineer felt it was more than worth it.

Today was assembly day. Engineer didn’t expect to spend more than an hour or two putting the pieces together. From his toolbox, he grabbed his electric drill and a bag of screws, then stepped towards the machine’s exposed components, and dropped to his knees to work. Just as Engineer moved the first heavy metallic covering over the bare circuitry, the workshop’s doors flung open.

“How’s the li’le doohickey yer werkin’ on commin’ along, Engie?”

Engineer turned and lifted up his goggles. Demoman approached him with a grin, stopping in front of the machine. 

“It ain’t quite done yet,” Engineer replied with a smile, “But I don’ plan on workin’ on it much longer.”

Demoman circled the strange contraption with a look of curiosity. “So, are ye finally gonnae tell me what it is? Ye don’ gotta tell anyone else, but _I_ wanna know!”

“An’ you’ll know when it’s done.” The Texan answered, and lowered his goggles over his eyes. Looking away, he returned to assembling the metal pieces together. “Don’ wanna ruin the surprise, after all.”

Demoman cheerfully shook his head, and turned towards his side of the workshop. “Alright Engie, keep yer secrets.” He laughed, rummaging through the mess of wiring and bottled chemicals piled atop his table. “I’ll continye buildin’ up me excitement, then. Jus’ lemme know if ye need me skills or expertise.”

“Heh, you’ll know when.” Engineer replied. “You jus’ happen to control the platinum supply.”

“Aye!” The Scotsman nearly jumped out of his boots. A beaming smile crossed his face as he grabbed a large container from his cluttered workshop table. “That reminds me, would ye mind if I borrowed yer smelter?” Demoman gestured towards the considerably large container. “I need t’ git this liquified _quickly_ , y’see.”

Engineer eyed the dark container for a moment. It was opaque, so the contents were hidden. Silently the Texan prayed that whatever was inside wouldn’t spontaneously explode… as it had before.

“Go right ahead,” Engineer responded, and turned back to his machine. As Demoman darted towards the smelter, the Texan yelled, “But if ya blow it up again, that’s yer ass!”

🜚

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 21st, 1968

9:53 PM

“That doesn’t look like a weapon.” Soldier voiced as he examined the strange, boxy machine.

Scout rolled his eyes. “No shit, dumbass.”

“You better watch your mouth, son.” Soldier warned, eyeing the younger man fiercely. “Before you start coughing up your own teeth.”

Scout began to retort, but Engineer attempted to pull the conversation away from him. “Well, it’s not a weapon, it’s a-”

“-A _disguised_ weapon?” Soldier asked.

“No, Soldier, it’s not a weapon. Y’see, it’s-”

“A device of sabotage?” Spy cut in.

Engineer sighed, gesturing towards the machine. “No- Jus’ listen-”

Spy turned to step out of the lounge. “Then it is of no use to me.”

“Hah, how very French of ye t’leave when ye can’t benefit from somethin’!” Demoman scowled, then reached over to pat the Texan’s shoulder. “S’okay Engie, I’ll stay.”

Spy quickly retorted- in French instead of English, but Engineer was certain he recognized various swears and... _colorful_ insults. The Texan pinched between his brows, and prayed for the good Lord to give him patience.

Apparently, bringing everyone into the Bastion’s loungeroom to present his new invention was not a good idea after all. Engineer hoped that this experience would bring his teammates closer together, despite his gut telling him otherwise. Perhaps he should listen next time. 

As insults were thrown across the room, Engineer felt his last strings of patience snap. “Would all’a y’all shut the hell up!?” 

The room fell quiet, enough that the normally drowned-out click of the air conditioning unit powering on echoed around the Bastion’s wide lounge. Demoman dropped the chair he had intended to throw at Spy and whipped around, staring Engineer down with absolute disbelief. Moments passed, and Engineer continued:

“Y’all act like yer in the fourth grade with all this stupid childish bickerin’!” The Texan, sighing, gestured towards his invention. “Jus’... shut up an’ let me talk, dammit!”

Not another word from the audience. Engineer felt a sense of washed-over relief. 

  
  


“Thank you.” Engineer, speaking to no one in particular, treated this as a demonstration- as if he were speaking to one of his classes back in Austin. “Now, I’ve noticed y’all seem to take frequent breaks during the day- an’ nunya can deny that either, there’s cameras _everywhere_ .” He turned, focusing on Scout. “Look, I dunno how HQ would take that information, but I’m positive they don’t appreciate their employees leaving their posts so often. _Because_ of that, I had an idea that’ll hopefully keep y’all outta trouble-”

Just as Engineer moved, turning to activate the machine, a black-masked figure had already approached and mashed a few buttons. Engineer gasped, and reached to pull Pyro’s hands away from it- but several items had already begun dispensing. Water bottles, bandages, bandage wraps, even bottles of aspirinwere pouring from the mouth of the machine in vast quantities. Engineer rushed to his knees, grabbing as many items as he could hold in one arm, and powered down the machine with his free hand. Pyro reached for Engineer’s hand, and helped him up from the ground. Although he couldn’t see the other man’s face from behind the dark mask, Engineer believed Pyro had an apologetic expression, solely by his “slumped” demeanor and erratic, albeit mumbled, speech. 

“S’alright.” Engineer replied with a smile. “Hey, ya helped with the demonstration.”

Pyro happily clapped his hands together, nodding.

“Okay so basically,” Scout spoke up with a curious expression. “It’s a giant vending machine? Cool.”

Engineer nodded. “Yes, but it’s more than that. See, it-”

Quietly Spy appeared at Engineer’s side, thoroughly spooking the Texan into dropping several of the items he still held. He took one of the medicine bottles and examined it closely. 

“Aspirin,” Spy read aloud. “A powerful drug with very significant side effects in high doses." He examined the bottle of painkillers closely. "This kind in particular is rather strong; certainly not legal. How did you manage to obtain such large amounts of this?”

From the corner of his eye, Spy noticed a shiny black-gloved hand waving high in the air. The Frenchman recognized it, and grimaced as his eyes fell onto Medic, who sat proudly on the loungeroom’s sofa. Spy rolled his eyes.

“Of course it was the vile German rat.” Spy huffed. “Why wouldn’t it be.”

Medic cackled. “Oh, so says the Frenchman who carries the pungent stench of reeking sweat and asbestos.”

“Yeah Spy really does smell like asscrack.” Scout laughed. “...What’s asbestos?”

Frowning, Engineer covered his face with his palm, and awaited the insanity that was building up, preparing to erupt into absolute chaos. Demoman debated whether or not he should stick around for a fight. Ultimately, the Scotsman decided it was time to go, and Pyro quickly followed behind. Scout watched them bolt from the building, and had considered leaving too, but the shocked expression that covered Spy's face was _priceless-_ So instead, Scout had moved to the other side of the room to watch intently as the bullshittery unfolded.

Clenching his fists, Spy growled, “Insults cannot change the fact that you, your countrymen, _and_ your ancestors are filthy, barbaric dogs! They wallered like pigs in their dirty, shoddy villages and lived like animals!”

“So, you are saying the Franks weren’t Germanic?” Medic inquired with a smirk. “Oh, and do not pretend Gaul was always a part of the “ _Glory of Rome._ ” Ah, they were Celtic, and according to your _beloved_ Romans, they were barbaric, too. And yet… they, too, were your ancestors, _your_ countrymen. How sad, to hate your own.” He paused, staring Spy straight in the eyes, and spoke, “So, Frenchman, if _I_ am the spawn of barbarians, what does that make you?”

Before Spy could muster up a response, Soldier quickly stepped to his side. “Look you fucking Kraut, I don’t know shit about Europe’s history- frankly I don’t give a damn, but I know one thing; I fought alongside some incredible men in France, men I knew I would never see again, but dammit I fought to protect them and their country, we fought _together_ , and we kicked _your_ asses!” Soldier pointed a finger towards the grinning German. “And I am not afraid to do it again, right here.”

“Yes, the indestructible American army.” Medic spoke with false admiration, squinting as he asked, “Oh, how was the fallout of the _Tet Offensive?_ Still losing the much-needed support for Vietnam? How many _boys_ has your prideful army allowed to die over there-?”

Everyone had been caught off guard. In a split second, Soldier had lunged toward Medic, grabbing the doctor by the collar of his red button-up shirt. Only a mere inch of space separated their faces, Medic could feel Soldier’s hands shaking against his shoulders, the pure anger burning through the veteran’s veins. Spy stepped away, fearing he too may end up on the wrong end of Soldier’s rage.

Soldier’s gravelly voice spoke as quietly as a man like him could. “Shut your _goddamn_ mouth. You don’t have a say in _shit_ this country does.”

“Apparently,” Medic boldly replied, “neither do _you_.”

Soldier raised a fist, and swiftly he swung towards Medic’s face- but another hand much larger than his own had grabbed his arm before contact was made. The Russian- Heavy, then pulled Soldier away from Medic, putting great distance between the two. Soldier’s eyes remained locked onto the doctor. Medic never dropped that shit-faced grin, either. 

“Stop it.” Heavy’s booming voice echoed throughout the lounge. “We are not at war, no more. No more fighting. No more... aggression. Engineer brought us here to show us creation that will help us, but everyone is arguing. It is disrespectful, to Engineer and everyone. When we fight each other, we are like children. But we are not children. We are team. We _must_ get along... to survive together.” 

Heavy released the two from his grip, and attempted to trade a sympathetic expression with them, but they did not return the gesture. Soldier exchanged glances with Spy, and made way for the barracks. Medic dusted himself off, adjusted his shirt, and returned to relax on the sofa. Heavy frowned.

“You made Soldier angry, Doctor.” He stated. "I saw it. He wanted to kill you. He would have."

Medic reopened his book to the page where he left off. “What, am I supposed to be _ashamed_ of myself?” 

“ _Da_ ,” Heavy replied, downstruck, “Yes, you should be.”

Medic paused for a moment. “...Well,” he hummed, “that’s too bad.”

Spy scoffed, and shook his head. He mumbled something, an insult that escaped Heavy’s perception but caused Medic to smile. The Frenchman dissipated into the air, escaping before another conflict grew. Several moments of silence passed. Engineer sighed, and rolled his machine towards the exit doors.

“I am sorry, Engineer.” Heavy spoke. “I was… interested in your creation.”

“S’alright, big guy. ” The Texan glanced towards Medic, who appeared to be more focused on his book and paid him no mind. “Maybe I can present it later. Without any problems.”

Quietly, Heavy nodded. Engineer left to store the machine back in his workshop, Heavy moved towards the sofas where Medic sat, reading. For a moment, he considered engaging the doctor in conversation again, but decided against it; more than likely, it would escalate to a point he would rather not be involved in. The Russian walked past the sofas, towards the stairs that lead to the barracks. As he moved, Heavy could feel a sharp pair of eyes staring him down. He did not acknowledge them. 

“A proud Soviet would have stomped that American patriot,” said Medic.

Heavy continued walking, and quietly replied. “I am not Soviet.”

Medic scoffed. “So you are a coward.”

“ _Nyet_. Soviets kill and destroy what they do not like. I do not do those things.” At the top of the staircase, Heavy turned towards his room. “It is wisdom that has made me stronger.”

Medic did not respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase, "stone the crow" or "stone the crows" is an expression used to show dismay, acknowledge a bad situation, or sometimes to present ill omens. 
> 
> (It is also the title of a badass song by the awesome band, DOWN (who's vocalist is also the lead singer of one of my favorite metal bands, Pantera!))


	17. One More Time Around Might Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand welcome back! Sorry for the wait. Not only am I working on other projects along with this one, I do also have responsibilities. So please bear with me!
> 
> Also, I received a message where a kind person asked if they were allowed to draw fanart of this story, and my answer was: absolutely! You do not have to ask permission to make fanart, it is always welcome. My only request is that I am allowed to see it, haha.
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, other than excessive swearing and mentions of irresponsible drinking. Also, Scout being Scout.
> 
> -
> 
> EDIT 12/8/20: MAJOR CHANGES MADE.
> 
> Out of all the scenes I want to draw from the story, the first half of this chapter is at the top of the list.

"Dustbowl"

New Mexico, USA

June 27th, 1968

1:05 PM

Even though the "Fortress," as Ms. Pauling called it, was disguised as a garrison town, the mercenaries did not receive their own housing. Ms. Pauling claimed that the reason was, again, _“safety”_ and _“security,”_ but that didn’t make the situation any less uncomfortable. The Bastion, a large building in the center of the Fortress, acted sort of like a hotel to the mercenaries- albeit a very _military-esque_ hotel. But to share a building with eight other men that you barely knew… it’s painful in thought, and a nightmare in reality. Even though they had their own quarters- rooms that they can “personalize” however they wanted, the mercenaries still had to share larger rooms with each other; the kitchen, the dining room, the lounge, and… the most painful one of them all, _the washracks._

Pure agony.

Some of the other men didn’t seem phased by this, which absolutely baffled the Scout. The Heavy claimed that he “was used to sharing with other men,” which raised several questions with Scout, along the lines of _‘what do those Russians do over there?’_ The Engineer claimed that it “wasn’t that big of a deal” and to just “mind your own business,” but apparently that _hick_ had no idea how hard that would be!

When Scout had entered the washracks for the first time, he expected the worst. Back in Boston, when students had to use the showers after gym, measures were taken to ensure privacy: separate showers and curtains were provided for both the boys and girls' locker rooms, and could also serve as a changing room for students who did not feel comfortable undressing in front of others. Scout wasn't afraid to admit that he was among the boys that refused to expose himself in front of his peers. It didn't matter that they were also boys, "experiencing the same changes" as his mother had blatantly said once- but you don't just get naked in front of people you barely know, simply because you _can._

But Scout didn't have a choice this time. When he had stepped into the washrooms, towel bundled in his hands, he expected the absolute _worst._

Before long, he was surrounded by burly men, hairy chests, broad shoulders, muscled arms and fuzzy bellies. Scout was sure he flinched at the sight; he has never felt so small and out-of-place like this. In contrast to the thick men marching around him, he appeared as nothing more than bone coated in skin.

While he had decently toned legs and arms due to his athletic background, Scout was nothing compared to the Greek God that was Soldier. Contrary to the other men- even Heavy- Soldier obviously kept up with a routine, given how prime his physique was. Heavy's huge arms and broad chest were the giant's most notable features. Demoman was physically fit everywhere except his stomach, where a prominent beer-gut seemed to be developing; perhaps he had abs of iron underneath it. All the heavy lifting that Engineer has to do on a daily basis really paid off on those arms, and working in the Texas sun left him with a farmer's tan. 

It was painful to look at. Scout stared down at his boney hands and thin arms wrapped around his towel. Scout hadn't been disgusted- hell, he was jealous! All these guys had so much to show for, and he didn't have shit. He _sucked._

They didn't notice him yet; too busy conversing amongst themselves. Nobody's towels had dropped yet, either- _thankfully,_ Scout thought, as he looked for somewhere to hide. Given the washroom's construction, just as Ms. Pauling implied, there wasn't a blind spot anywhere. Well.

And the towels dropped. Scout wasn't prepared to be trapped in a forest of naked old men, and found a saving grace in the sound of the washroom's door squeaking open. Scout turned to face the new arrival, expecting to stall time by catching conversation with him, but standing before his eyes was a bare zombified horror- _dear God what the fuck is that?_

Scout's first impression of Pyro wasn't all that notable. Like Spy, he refused to unmask himself, constantly wore gloves and long sleeves to keep himself covered up. Today, he got his first _visual_ impression. Scarred from head to toe in severe burns, Pyro's body was left a mess. His skin's fiery gradients of peach to deep red almost looked like a bloody slab of raw meat, or those muscular system diagrams in biology class. 

In pure shock, Scout had sputtered out, "Dude, what nuclear reactor did you crawl out of!?"

Pyro stared back at him with those baggy glossed-over eyes that irked Scout deeply; very unnerving. After a moment, Pyro had decided to ignore Scout, and hobbled over to the showers- like a floppy bacon slice, Scout thought, and, _how does someone live like that?_

It wasn't clear if the others were just as unsettled by Pyro's horrid appearance. Inevitably, they'd all have to get used to it. _Floppy bacon slice._

No more stalling. The quicker he does it, the faster he can leave. So Scout dove into that burly forest of naked old men- that sounds absolutely wrong- and pretended nobody existed for twenty minutes. Small attempts at conversation were thrown his way, but quickly dodged with "fuck off" and "shut up." Eventually they stopped trying. 

Man. What an evening. 

...

Neither Sniper, Spy, or Medic has used the Bastion's washracks so far. The doctor was one of the more vocal mercs who complained about the washroom situation. Instead of going down with his team, Medic had took full advantage of the Medbay's showers; there were no rules against it, and Medic was sure to flaunt that luxury. Scout hated going to the doctor, but Medic's arrogance had made the German one doctor that Scout hated the most. _Bitch._

Sniper didn’t outwardly speak during the conversation- er, argument- but he didn’t have to. For some reason, he was the only mercenary that was allowed to bring a vehicle to the Fortress- and he brought a _minivan_ \- which meant he probably wasn’t going to spend too much time within the building, so he didn’t have room to complain about anything. _Bastard._

Spy probably _was_ there, but used his stupid invisibility tricks to hide. _Asshole._

Although Scout hasn't actually seen the inside of Sniper's van, the guy has some (probably barbaric) way of keeping up with his personal hygiene; the few moments Scout has spent around him confirmed that. Sniper smelled like plants, soap, gun grease and iron; it was better than the alternative. 

Scout realized he had just been thinking about what Sniper smells like. Gross.

The mercenaries have been in Dustbowl for several weeks now- maybe a month- and Scout hated being stuck in such a monotonous routine of _“wake up, eat, patrol the barricade, eat, go to sleep, and repeat”_ (with other necessities slid in there somewhere.) He still wasn’t used to this, and really, he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. This- well, _everything,_ it’s far too uncomfortable for him.

Inside the walls of his pale-walled, barely-furnished room, Scout wondered why he even agreed to do this at all. 

_'Right,'_ he recalled with a long frown, _'jail was still an option, and eventual prison, with a possible death penalty… Ma. This was all for Ma.'_

Scout then wondered when the _highly anticipated_ fighting would begin. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to fight, but... it would be much better than sitting in what was supposed to be his room, thinking about this whole situation over and over again. The Fortress’ walls were becoming too much to bear, and so were the eighteen- er, seventeen eyes wandering around within it. Ms. Pauling told him that he would be here until the job was done, and she promised she would wipe his record clean. Scout only hoped she would keep her promise, and that this _war_ wouldn’t last for too long. He wasn’t so sure about the other mercenaries, but Scout had a life that he looked forward to running back to. Well, someone, at least- and he hoped she was looking for him, and wanted to see him again, too.

🜚

The sniper nests stood tall, higher than any other structure in the Fortress. Looming above the town, each nest overlooked the entire garrison, even further across the desert; perfect for detecting an incoming attack. Whenever the Sniper wasn’t hiding away in his van, he would hide in the towers, guarding the Fortress from above. To Sniper, it wasn’t as tedious as it may seem; with his line of work, he was used to quiet monotony. Enjoyed it, really. Sniper would spend most days leaning back in the chair he’d drag up to the nests, his rifle resting in his lap when he wasn’t spying through the scope, and a cold tallie bottle in his right hand. It was the perfect setup for him; quiet and unbothered.

“Yo, Snipes! Ya up there?”

Well, the majority of the time it was.

Sniper stood up from his chair, resting his rifle against the wall, placing the bottle near the back leg of the chair, and walked towards the nest’s front window. At the foot of the tower stood the Scout, waving with one hand and holding a backpack in the other. Behind his dark sunglasses, Sniper narrowed his eyes at the younger man, frowning.

“Whadaya want, lad? I’m on shift.”

“Jus’ wonderin’ if ya wanted some company. I brought-”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon Snipes!”

Sniper groaned, and impatiently tapped his finger on the edge of the window. “I’m on _shift,_ Scout. And you are, too. I know what the schedule said.”

“I can watch from da tower with ya!” Scout persisted, and moved towards the tower’s ladder.

“What? No-! Lad, you’re the _Scout_ , that means you’re supposed to be patrolling the outskirts of the garrison, you bloody fuckwit!”

Scout, however, ignored Sniper’s complaining and began climbing the ladder. “Don’ care, I’m comin’ up there!”

Growling, Sniper quickly moved to the tower’s exit. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the top of the ladder and rapidly shook it. Surprised, Scout gasped and gripped the ladder, attempting to prevent himself from falling off.

“Hey! What da hell, Sniper!? Ya tryin’ t’ kill me!?”

“If ya agree to climb down, I’ll stop shakin’ the ladder.”

“We’re like 20 feet in the air, if I fall off, I _will_ die!”

“Blokes’ve survived falls this high, lad." Sniper continued to shake the ladder, his frown deepening at Scout's persistence and refusal to just _leave him alone._

Scout tightly gripped the ladder with whitening knuckles, a scream building in his throat but he held it. He attempted to climb higher, but the shaking kept him locked in place. He dared not to look down, instead gazing up at the ladder-shaking menace. After a few passing moments of rising fear, Scout shouted, “Dude-! W- What's your fuckin' problem!?”

“You!" Sniper gritted, "You're the bloody problem! Just- Just stop trying-"

“What!?"

Slowly, Sniper ceased his movements, and sighed. Once Scout regained himself and his balance, he glared up at Sniper with wide eyes, his face burning red with clear anger as he built up a fiery retort. 

“What da hell do ya mean, " _you_?" Scout fumed. “All I’ve done is be nice t’ ya, and you’re callin’ _me_ a problem!?”

Sniper wasn’t one to yell often, so he kept his gravelly voice low. His sour tone, however, remained a reflection of his annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t always want _company_ , Scout!” He argued. “Why can’t ya understan’ that I _like_ having some bloody time to m’self?”

“Because ya always have time t’ yourself, asshole!” Scout hissed, climbing farther up the ladder. “Ya hang out in your van whenever you’re not in these damn towers, an’ ya don’ even eat or sleep in da Bastion! So dat’s not an excuse! You’re jus’ bein’ a jerk! Now let me up there!”

Reaching the top of the ladder, Scout’s bright-red scowling face was only inches away from Sniper’s rugged, grimacing one. Scout could see the older man’s eyes behind those dark sunglasses, his furrowed brows, and sharp stare. Scout remained persistent, however; the stare hardly fazed him. Sniper shook his head, and stood up from the tower’s entrance. He moved away, allowing Scout to enter. The younger didn’t hesitate to follow. 

Sniper returned to his seat, grabbing his bottle off of the floor. He watched Scout drop his backpack to the ground, and unpack snacks, drinks, and some other miscellaneous things. After a moment, Sniper asked, “...Why do ya want to be around me all the time, lad?”

“You’re not like those other old assholes.” Scout replied. “You’re actually cool. Even if ya were bein’ an ass earlier.”

“I’m hardly interesting. I’m just a bogan.”

“Ya let me talk.” Scout continued to dig around in his backpack. “Dat’s good enough for me.” Finally finding what he’d been searching for, Scout tossed a plastic-wrapped snack cake to the other man. “Here. It’s called a Twinkie.”

“I know what a Twinkie is.” Sniper caught it, examining the treat with mild disinterest.

Scout shrugged. “Sorry, I just thought ya only ate wild animals down there.”

“We eat whatever we feel like eating.” Sniper muttered to himself, placing the Twinkie to the side. “I’d eat a whole damn bloke if I wanted to.”

“Is that Australian for whale?”

“...Sure, mate.”

“Cool.” Scout opened his own Twinkie, and sat down next to Sniper- on the ground, since there was only one chair in the tower. “Tell me about Australia. What’s it like down there? Is it hot? Kinda like here?”

“Yeah, maybe, but summers here aren’t shit compared to ‘Straya. If ya grow up there, it’s normal to ya.” Sniper took a swig from his bottle. “This isn’t nearly as hot as it can get.”

“Wow. So what do ya, um, do in heat like dat?”

“Just head t’ the ocean ‘n get pissed all fuckin’ day.”

“...What?”

“Wh- drunk, pissed means _drunk._ When ya got nothing betta t' do, ya grab some slabs, head to the beach ‘n get pissed, er, whatever.” Sniper shrugged. “Honestly, I dunno what normal folks do, mate. I didn’t live on the coast, a bit more inland than most people. Either way, I spent most of m’ time indoors or helpin’ m’ ma ‘n dad, anyway. When I wasn't, well... y'know.” He took another swig of his drink. “Got older, left, then spent m’ summers gettin’ pissed on the beach. At night. Far away. Because bloody galahs don’ know how to fuck up an’ leave an old bogan alone. Then I’d stumble back home all legless witha few stubbies, trippin’ over some bloke’s fuckin’ sheep ‘cause he free-ranged ‘em or some shit…”

Sniper glanced down to Scout, the younger’s wide blue eyes stared back at the Australian with pure astonishment. The speechlessness almost made Sniper uncomfortable, until Scout broke into a fit of laughter.

“H- heh, oh man- d- dude, oh my God, everything you just said sounded like a completely different language. I didn’t understand a single God-damned thing that came out of your mouth.”

“...I figured.”

“That, that right there is why I love talkin’ to ya, Snipes. You’re so weird, you’re cool. Hey, what about…”

The younger man’s words seemed to drift into the air, and soon Sniper wasn’t focused on him anymore. Why was he trying to confide in a guy who clearly did not take him seriously? Sniper himself wasn’t much of a talker, but he would listen to others speak all day if he wanted. He’d listened to Scout a few times, but that didn’t mean they were friends. Friendship is mutual. Scout didn’t seem to care much for what Sniper had to say; he only wanted someone to listen to _him_. That wasn’t friendship. That wasn’t mutual.

And yet, Sniper found that he didn’t mind. Maybe Scout needed an outlet, and that outlet was him. Maybe, he would eventually listen to Sniper, too. What if they weren’t too different from each other, like had Sniper initially thought? 

Even if none of that was true, Sniper admitted to himself that he enjoyed the _occasional_ company, at least. Continuing to isolate himself from his teammates was exactly what Ms. Pauling told him _not_ to do; with how mysteriously intelligent that woman was, Sniper was sure she’d find out that he was doing exactly that. Would she let him loose over that? Probably not, but...

“...Yeah, that was a dumb question.”

Sniper turned back to Scout, raising a brow.

“Sorry, Snipes. Didn’ mean it like that.”

_What was the question?_

“It’s... fine.” Sniper replied, hesitantly. He decided not to ask. “Don’t worry about it, lad.”

“Hey, what’s Heavy doin’ down there?”

Sniper leaned up from his chair, and gazed down at the nearby buildings. Just as Scout spotted, the Heavy had entered the Fortress from the northern gates and moving towards the weapons storage building. 

“He’s probably just doin’ his job.” Sniper returned to his chair. “Like _you_ should be.”

Rolling his eyes, Scout replied, “I _am_ doin’ my job. I’m keepin’ watch with ya!”

Quietly, Sniper sighed. What did it matter, anyway? If the bugger wanted to just sit next to him and talk, he’d let him. He would just move along with it. There’s no point in fighting with the Scout, anyway; Sniper has seen that first hand. Somehow, despite everyone’s best efforts, Scout manages to get his way every time. Almost.

To himself, Sniper had to admit, the persistence that Scout had was almost admirable. He may not have much diligence, but he certainly had the dedication. Sniper could never see himself having the sheer determination that Scout did. 

It was hard enough for him to get up out of bed in the morning.

“Hey Snipes, wanna hear a joke?”

Maybe this was exactly what he needed.

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter doesn't come from a song of the related era (gasp!), but a good song nonetheless. The line is from "The Day I Tried to Live" by the legendary Soundgarden. I was listening to the song while working on this chapter, and I thought it fit very well!


	18. Sudno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW!!! We've reached over 1000 hits!! Thank all of you so much for reading. Enjoy the next chapter! <3
> 
> Welcome back! Warnings for this chapter have already been tagged, as they've been mentioned before. Mentions of murder, communism, gulags, and Nazi Germany.
> 
> Heavy-centric.

"Dustbowl"

New Mexico, USA

June 27th, 1968

12:45 PM

New Mexico’s heat felt so foreign. A bright sun, unshaded by thick dark clouds, shining so beautifully over the sandy desert. To some of his teammates, the hot climate was a burden. Clothes stuck to their bodies with sweat while they suffocated in the stifling heat, only finding relief afterhours, when they could rush inside the Fortress and relax with the air conditioning. 

The Heavy found it amusing, the way they scattered upon the break-bell’s ring.

So far, the heat did not bother him. It was new, yes, but not terrible nor unwelcome. Several things, Heavy noticed, that affected or upset his teammates did not do so to him. Maybe it was because he grew up differently. He came from a land far from here, and was raised through different experiences. Heavy hoped that their differences wouldn’t prevent him from forming friendships with his teammates. That was the goal, right? Aside from defending this region, of course. Even if it wasn’t, Heavy didn’t have any issues with making friends. He knew that communication between him and others was difficult due to his limited English vocabulary, and he was well aware that his large size caused him to appear intimidating, but that did not mean that he was some dumb brute. Heavy only hoped that his teammates understood that. It was something that he thought about often. 

Even now, as he stood along the Fortress barricade, his mind whirred with thought. The Heavy was a man of few words, but he observed. He listened. He knew the things they said about each other, and himself. It would be ridiculous to think friendships would blossom so quickly between nine men that were practically polar opposites of each other- quite literally in some cases- but the Heavy was confident that they could get along. Somehow, at least.

Boots crunched against the sand, movement that was not his own. Heavy turned towards the creaking gates as they opened, and a man much smaller in form appeared from behind them. A younger black-haired German man, dressed in a white coat with thin round glasses- _the Medic_ , Heavy recalled. Undeterred, the Medic quickly approached the Heavy, stopping directly in front of the larger man. Medic wore a stern expression, one that Heavy realized he hasn’t dropped since the day they arrived here.

Promptly the Medic cleared his throat, and blandly stated, “I apologize if you are busy.”

“It is fine,” Heavy replied. “I was only watching.” The Medic raised a brow, and Heavy slightly shifted in place. “Is there problem?”

“Interesting. I came here to ask _you_ that question.”

Heavy frowned. Why would he ask that? He had no issues with the Medic, and nothing he had done so far should have insinuated that there was. Unless, Heavy then thought, this wasn’t about behavior at all.

“...Why would there be problem?”

Medic scoffed. “Why would there not be? All the aggression between our homelands wasn't for nothing, and yet, you seem to act as if the past decade was nonexistent. That is why I ask, is there a problem? And if there is not, why?”

“Ag...gres...sion?” Heavy took several moments to ponder the unfamiliar word. He sighed, and shook his head. “I was not soldier in war. My father was… fighter, but not soldier. Apologies, I do not know correct word in English. But, what my father did, he was seen as enemy of our nation and killed. His family became enemy, too.”

“He was a revolutionary.” Medic replied. “And you were guilty by association, so they sent you to those… gulags.” He crossed his arms. “I found it ironic, that those brainwashed fools considered themselves better than their enemy, despite doing the same things.”

“It is easier to do bad things when you believe it is... righteous to do it.” Heavy mused. “The same is said for what happened in _Germaniya_. It is not difficult to give someone hope and… man...nipu...late them, when they have nothing else to look to. Sad to say, but is true.”

The Medic took a moment to look away from Heavy, as if he resisted the urge to say something. His gaze remained averted as he responded, “That is why you do not hold any, em, animosity towards me?”

“You can not be blamed for actions of others.”

Medic frowned, and turned his gaze back to the larger man. “...I was not-” Medic caught himself, and realization set in. He stepped away, backing towards the gates.

The Heavy’s formerly calm expression quickly turned to confusion. “You were not civilian?” 

Medic appeared as if he wanted to say something, his expression held forcefully still, but reluctance kept him quiet as he keyed in the gates’ entry code. 

“That is not possible. You do not look- you would have been child, guilty of nothing. You do not look much older than Zhan-”

“We should not be talking about this!” Medic snapped. He stepped through the open gates, and without looking back, he said, “We are not allowed to discuss personal matters, remember? If you do not want to get in trouble, you will drop this.” 

The gates slammed shut, and once again Heavy stood alone at the barricade. Heavy acknowledged the dangers of discussing his past, and those of his teammates, but he remained bemused by what the Medic had said. In a way, perturbed him- it simply made no logical sense. The Medic was a young man, much younger than himself. At the very least, he was middle-aged. There is no way he was a soldier during the war, he would have been far too young. 

A part of him wanted to follow the Medic, and attempt to talk with him and make sense of his words. It would be a risk, breaking the rules that Ms. Pauling had in place, but…

No. Regardless of what he wanted, Medic’s hesitance to continue the conversation was not simply because of the rules. He had no problem discussing with Heavy before. Heavy would not pressure the doctor into talking with him if he did not want to, and in this case, he didn’t. Heavy only hoped that Medic wouldn’t avoid him after this, and they could still be friends.

As the sun settled behind the far-away mountains, casting the sky and clouds with deep shades of pink, purple, and orange, Heavy felt a cool breeze brush past him. The afternoon had fallen into evening much quicker than he had expected. To his teammates, though, a parting dawn is worse than a sunset. Soon, like every day before, they would be rushing inside for the night, escaping the heat for rest, and Heavy decided he wouldn’t wait behind. He turned towards the gate, then froze. For a split second, a small blue light shined against the gate wall. Heavy stepped away, and moved towards the keypad-

_Crack!_

An unmistakable sound, that of a Dragunov sniper rifle. Heavy has heard it fired many times before. It was a popular choice for hired killers in the USSR, since it was modern and powerful, and the epitome of Russian craftsmanship. But his team's Sniper did not use a Dragunov. He used a Remington- an M40- and the shots sounded very different. In the wall, there was now a gaping bullet hole right where Heavy was _just_ standing seconds before, and a sharp chill ran down the Russian's spine. Quickly Heavy keyed in the security code, and vanished behind the gates.

Heavy moved as fast as his legs could carry him. His destination was the armory- “ _Weapons Storage Building_ ”- which was not far from the northern gates, where he entered. The shadow of a nearby sniper tower loomed above him, and Heavy began to wonder if Sniper was up in that tower and had heard the shot. Hopefully he did, and he wouldn’t be caught off guard- by another of his class, no less.

The Heavy reached the building from the back. Slamming open the doors, he turned to his right, and gripped the bright red alarm’s handle. After a strong tug, the alarm violently blared from every speaker in the garrison, and Heavy stomped towards his storage room. Inside sat Heavy’s prized rotary machine gun, Sasha. He has kept her for a very long time, and he has been _itching_ to use her once again.

It wasn’t long until the storage room filled up with his teammates, shuffling and shouting as they stocked their personal arsenal. Scout attempted to grab Sniper’s SMG, to which the taller retaliated by smacking Scout with the SMG. Soldier and Demoman exchanged ammo with one another. Pyro managed to pickpocket Spy’s flip-lighter and proceeded to ignite one of the tails on the Frenchman’s coat. Engineer had a few ammo boxes in front of him and appeared to be counting. 

Medic was not in the armory.

At that moment Heavy felt a wave of sadness fall upon him. Even if he couldn’t get any answers for his questions, he wanted to at least apologize for upsetting the Medic. He would have to visit the medbay eventually.

From the corner of his eye, Heavy noticed a shorter man approaching him. He turned, and faced a goggleless Engineer. He appeared perplexed.

“Hope I ain’t botherin’ ya Heavy, but I need a favor, if ya don’ mind.”

“Heavy is happy to help team.” Heavy replied. “What is problem?” 

Engineer raised his handful of ammo boxes towards the larger man. At maximum, each box only held _8 shells_. Odd.

“Seems I didn’ have as many shells as I thought.” Engineer explained. “I noticed your shotgun took the same size that mine does, so I was wonderin’ if I could borrow some of your shells, just for today. I dunno how much I’ll need, so I was a little worried when I saw I only had twenty-four. I wasn’ plannin’ on dyin’ today.” The Texan laughed, wrecked with nervousness.

Heavy opened a pocket on his ammo belt and grabbed a handful of shells, and passed them to Engineer. The shorter man thanked him kindly. Heavy smiled.

This would be their first fight, together as a team- aside from the frequent team-based training sessions. A _real_ battle. Heavy was used to working alone, they all were. This would be different. Very different, for each of them. To Heavy, it was somewhat exciting.

Maybe, the Heavy mused, this would be the moment for everyone to really understand each other.

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sudno" (Spelt "судно" in the Slavic Cyrillic script) means "vessel" in Russian. In most uses, it is referring to a boat, ship, submarine, or sometimes any kind of passage craft. 
> 
> Also, I need to post my headshots of the Mercs here eventually. They don't look too different from their original designs. The only two who have the most changes is Medic- who has around 20 years taken from his age, and Demoman- who has green eyes, freckles, and little tufts of natural red within his black hair. Engie isn't bald, either haha. And Soldier has some facial scruff.
> 
> (There are references to the work of Boris Ryzhy (aka The Last of the Soviet Poets) in this chapter. He is one of my favorite poets, and his work will be referenced more, at least in relation to Heavy (he loves literature). Ryzhy's writings are beautifully dark and gloomy, and some of the most fascinating works I've ever read.)
> 
> (The usage in the title is metaphorical, and is a reference to events later on.)


	19. EXTRA: A Message to You, Rudy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Apologies for the wait, I'm dealing with some personal life issues at the moment, but everything is fine. 
> 
> This shorter chapter focuses on some characters that were previously introduced, and details on Ms. Pauling's promotion. It will be a segue into the second plotline in this novel.
> 
> Warning for graphic imagery. Enjoy! 
> 
> (For those who have been asking where they can find me elsewhere, I have an Instagram (harpy_bones), Tumblr (harpy-bones) and a DeviantArt (harpybones). I don't take long to reply.)
> 
> EDIT: I've added more dates to the previous chapters to reduce confusion.

Downtown

Atlanta, Georgia, USA

June 27th, 1968

10:04 PM

Mourning doves spent dawn and dusk soundly cooing, a sound Ms. Pailing grew very familiar with during her missions for RED. Often she wondered how those beautiful birds gained such a despondent name. “Mourning” was not the word that came to her when she listened to their coos. Maybe it was the environment, the feeling, or the situation that resulted in the naming. Or maybe it was none of that.

Brown feathered, they sat close atop the powerline cords, barely visible underneath the dark night sky. In clusters, they peered down at her with black unmoving eyes. She felt them on her back, and a shiver coursed down her spine. Just as she lifted her white heel from the concrete, the doves vocalized a song. Her eyes focused once more, down at the slumped shadow gingerly propped up against the wall as if he were an ornament. Ms. Pauling stepped back, and pulled her heel from her foot. Quickly she dug into her black bag, searching. Her fingers graced the soft texture of cloth, and Ms. Pauling’s hand snapped into a tight closed-fist. She stood there gripping the cloth, stiff and unmoving, staring at the still shadow of the body lying against the stone wall. The doves followed her movements. Perhaps she had followed them. 

In that dark abandoned lot, as Ms. Pauling rubbed his blood from her heel, she came to understand the importance of situational realization. The red spread, growing across the cloth with every rough scrub, but a permanent stain would remain on the white heel. The stain would be a memoir; she realized that. Stains can be burdens just as they can be memories, metaphorical or not. 

Perhaps the naming of the Mourning Doves was a result of situational realization. 

Ms. Pauling returned the heel to her foot, still gripping the red-stained cloth in her hand. The black eyes followed as she stumbled towards an old rusted pickup truck and leaned onto it for support. Her cat-eye glasses fell from her face, clattering against the concrete ground and exposing her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks to the cold night breeze. Ms. Pauling crumpled to the ground, allowing the cloth to fall from her hand. Her body acted against her better judgement, and the raven-haired woman began to wail. In moments, the doves mimicked her cries.

🜚

Austin, Texas, USA

June 27th, 1968

10:15 PM

  
  


“Okay, well, maybe he jus’ went onna business trip.”

“He’s gone, Laura! Eerrybody’s sayin’ he left, he’s _gone._ Why cantcha get that through yer fat head!”

“He ain’t gone!”

“Oh my lord, yer impossible!”

Laura huffed. Tightly she curled the phone’s cord around her finger, tugging at it to somewhat vent her frustrations. On the other side of the line, Eva sighed. 

“I don’ get it. Why do you even care where he is?”

“He’s our professor! One of the nicest ones we got, too! Why don’ _you_ care?”

Eva scoffed. “The only reason why yer so worked up about this is because _you_ wanna end up in the _bed_ with him- ah! Don’ you even deny it! Ever since we got int’ his class, he’s all ya ever talk about anymore. Honestly, it gets frustratin’ an’ annoyin’. If yer gonna do some stupid gumshoe detective work t’ find him, go ahead. But leave _me_ out of it. I can already tell ya, he found some place better to go-”

Laura slammed the phone down onto the receiver, and flopped backwards onto her bed. Her curly brown locks bounced up onto her face, and quickly she shoved them away with a frustrated groan. Why, she wondered, did everything Eva say make sense? Laura did not like to admit being wrong, but Eva had been exactly right. Why should she worry so much about Mr. Conagher? It wasn’t like anyone else in their class would care so much about the whereabouts of their wayward professor…

Which, Laura then thought, was precisely the reason why she should. Eva may not give a damn, but she sure did. Whatever happened to Mr. Conagher, she was going to find out, however long it would take.

🜚

Downtown

Atlanta, Georgia, USA

June 27th, 1968

10:25 PM

Ms. Pauling had never felt such heavy grief overcome her before, not like the kind that struck her body then. Overwhelming, it reverberated deep in her heart and the pit of her stomach. She wept, loud and clear, into darkness, and pulled the bloodied rag into her grip. With her other hand, she dug into her pocket and grabbed her small transceiver. Slowly she brought it to her ear, and waited for her frequency to be answered.

She did not know him long, but Ms. Pauling had spent so much time around the agent, that she considered him more of a friend than anyone else that worked with her. What stood before her would be a simple killing to her colleagues- she knew that- but to Ms. Pauling, it was cold-blooded murder. One that someone like Santiago did not deserve. Despite their occupations, Santiago was such a kind-hearted person, unlike others at TF. Industries. Every day he showed up with a smile and was nothing short of respectful to each and every person, even if they did not treat him with the same regard. 

The Administrator had told Ms. Pauling to track down an agent’s location signal, but she did not say who. Perhaps she should have been wiser. Earlier this month, Santiago left on reconnaissance and had not yet returned. He was the most likely candidate.

Her transmission clicked as someone connected. “...Ms. Pauling?” The operator answered.

“Yes,” She addressed, “Reporting in. I found the missing agent.” She paused, wiping her face. “...Michael Santiago. It’s… murder. Brutal. Someone- a rival maybe, knew who he was. Didn’t leave anything else behind. No calling cards. Just… him.”

“Murdering an agent is enough of a message for us.” The operator replied. “We’ll send a party out to you. Wait right there.”

The line disconnected. Ms. Pauling’s arm dropped to her side, and her body slumped against the truck once again. A dove cooed somewhere above, but she paid no mind to it. Her eyes travelled the deep splatters against the pavement, the needless brutality put on display, and a sudden rise of anger swelled inside. The large shadow of Santiago’s limp body seemed to grow at her vision’s corner. Ms. Pauling roughly gripped the transceiver in her hand, and rose to her feet.

Something, though she wasn’t sure what, brewed behind Corporate's closed doors. This was not the first agent to be killed, and he certainly will not be the last. There were files to prove that. Apparently, no one had been skeptical enough to look into it yet. Or maybe, none were successful in their search for a reason behind these attacks.

Ms. Pauling, however, didn’t give up very easily. She believed in seeing everything to its end. Santiago’s death was personal, and whatever- _whoever_ , was responsible will be held accountable- but they won’t be the only ones answering questions. When Ms. Pauling received this godforsaken promotion, the Administrator had promised a deeper understanding of her company’s purpose, and a look into her corporate empire's inner workings that were given to no one else before. Really, it was the _truth_ that she has been waiting for. Ms. Pauling was more than eager for an extensive look inside that place. Santiago did not deserve this, and she would let that be known.

Her transceiver buzzed, signaling someone's request. She brought it back to her ear, and answered. On the other side of the line, an the scratchy voice of an old crone addressed her by name.

"Ms. Pauling." The crone spoke, "I've been alerted about the unfortunate fate of Santiago. It's a shame we have lost another agent. However, there is no time to mourn. When you return to Spokane, I have another task for you."

The sound of the old woman's droning voice, her indifference to her agent's death, pulled at Ms. Pauling's nerves. Her blood bubbled, face reddening as her lips curled to retort, but she bit her tongue before she spit out a curse she would regret. It took an immense amount of inner strength to prevent her from smashing the transceiver against the concrete.

Ms. Pauling held herself together, and calmly she asked, "Administrator, a request- if you will?"

"Speak."

"I would like to... talk, with you, when I arrive. I believe it is important. Immensely."

"If you wish. Your pick-up party will arrive in a few hours. Patience, Ms. Pauling. We will speak again soon." 

The line closed, and Ms. Pauling launched the device across the abandoned lot. 

Indeed, they will speak again soon.

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No fighting yet, mwahahah. It will be covered eventually. 
> 
> Note, I never name a character unless they have some kind of importance in the story.
> 
> Title comes from the 1967 song "A Message to You, Rudy" by Dandy Livingstone, later made famous by The Specials in 1979.


	20. Armarillo Sky, Shape My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! WOW!!! We've hit 100 kudos! Thank you!!! I am so glad that the story is loved so far! <3
> 
> Since we've hit the great 100, I would like to ask the readers what they have enjoyed most about All the Kings Men, and what you would like to see as the story continues. Answers aren't necessary, but feedback is always appreciated. If you would like, please let me know!
> 
> \---
> 
> NOTES: 
> 
> \- The BLU Team is here! They are not clones of the RED Team. BLU's mercenaries are people with their own identities and stories, too.  
>   
> \- BLU Mercs will be referred to as "enemy (merc class)" or "BLU (merc class)" whereas RED mercs will be just their class names, or "RED (merc class)" to reduce confusion  
>   
> \- The Medics do not have Medi-Guns yet, so they have to handle injuries the old-fashioned way  
>   
> \- There are references to Chapter 15 (Set the Night on Fire), Chapter 16 (Stone the Crow), Chapter 19 (A Message To You, Rudy) and Chapter 12 (Meet: The Spy) ....so if you need to, go back and read to make sure you're caught up
> 
> Chapter Warnings: This is the first battle! Lots and lots of violence.

Once you catch a whiff of gun smoke, it’s a stench you will never forget. A pungent, acrid odor it is; like that of freshly lit charcoal, burning wood, and a hint of something strongly metallic. The sour scent holds thick in your lungs, irritating your eyes and nose after a while- eventually, you get used to the power of that smell, though. After three- four- a hundred shots and watching those Krauts drop like flies, you become real friendly with that awful, burning stench. Rifles and shotguns won’t do much good against Bandits, though. The sight of one rushing in from the sky drops your stomach to the floor. The moment they spot you, you’re marked for death… until there’s a sudden rumble under your boots. You look up to the racing engines above, and wait. Quickly they emerge from dark clouds, your saving grace in the form of speeding fighter aircrafts, shaded deep olive green. Listening to the Flyboys overhead, firing away, gives a real sense of relief. _Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-_

_Boom!_ Bogie down. Then another, and another. _Boom_ , _boom!_

They just keep falling.

Someone calls your name, you follow. With flaming engines and aircraft debris falling from the sky, it’s wise to move away as quickly as possible. Without question, you meet your companions’ pace, and hurry away.

_Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-_

Wait-

_Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-!_

Wait!

🜚

T.F. Industries

Spokane, Washington, USA

June 28th, 1968

9:23 AM

The chair had become increasingly uncomfortable to sit in. Ms. Pauling never considered herself impatient, but at this moment she had to dig her heels into the carpet just to prevent herself from storming out of the room. As she recalled, the Administrator had agreed to meet her after she returned from Georgia, and yet she seemed to be taking her _precious_ time that she valued so much. Ms. Pauling had spent much of the flight back deciding- planning- how she should present her declaration to Administrator. However, Ms. Pauling was somewhat hesitant. She feared Administrator’s anger more than anything else; she feared her fate. Forget dismissal; Administrator doesn’t “fire” people, she _ejects_ them from the company. The useless and no-longer-useful have to be disposed of, but the risk of sensitive information regarding T.F Industries being compromised is far too high, so the disposable must be handled in less-acceptable ways... and Ms. Pauling has watched one of the _many_ ejection processes first-hand before. It’s never the same each time. Sometimes, to avoid suspicion, Administrator has to be rather creative about it.

Ms. Pauling dug her fingers into the crone's desk, scowling. Regardless of what happens, there was no stepping away now. She doesn’t forget her promises, and she wasn’t going to let Santiago down.

....

_Santiago._

Just the very thought of the fallen agent, her _friend,_ brought ache to Ms. Pauling’s heart. There were many ways, so many different ways, that mission could have gone- and it ended like _this_. She’s never seen such brutality like that before, not even in her line of work. Of course Ms. Pauling has killed before- assassinated, usually- but she’s killed, and she noticed a very stark difference in tactic between this killer and herself. When Ms. Pauling strikes, she keeps it _clean,_ so that when she leaves, there’s nothing left but a victim to a heart attack. With this… the scene just looked so _angry_. Brutal and angry, as if nothing but pure rage held that weapon; as if the killer wasn’t even _human_.

_Could_ a single human be so brutal? What would Santiago have done for someone to just… 

Abruptly the office doors swung open. Ms. Pauling jumped, quickly catching herself before she flew out of the chair. The tall graying crone pridefully swayed into the room, as she normally does, but this time it seemed more… obvious? Intentional, as if she’s making a statement this time. _Maybe that’s not the right-_

“Thank you for your patience, Ms. Pauling.” The old woman droned. “I was occupied for a moment, you understand. Now,” She seated herself behind her oversized desk, and locked eyes with the younger woman across from her. “You had something you wished to discuss, Ms. Pauling?”

Ms. Pauling readjusted herself and cleared her throat. “Yes ma’am, that’s correct. I wanted to talk about Santiago-”

“Michael Santiago is dead.” Administrator lacked any sensitivity about the subject. Ms. Pauling refrained from scowling as the crone continued, “There is nothing left to say about the subject. He will be given a proper funeral, his family is informed about his work and thus are not an issue. All colleagues are welcome to attend the event should they wish. _What_ , pray tell, do you want to say about it, Ms. Pauling? Is this the “important” subject you wanted to discuss?”

Ms. Pauling’s fingers twitched with tension in her lap, but her expression remained stoically blank. “I want to further examine the case, ma’am. Something about the savagery of Santiago’s murder seems off.” Ms. Pauling reached into her purse and grabbed a folded piece of paper. Quickly she opened it, placing it front and center where the old woman could clearly read the bolded print. “It was crass and sloppy; the work is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, or that exists in your archives of the previous attacks on the industry.” She jabbed at various words and names. “I think this is a sign- a warning maybe, and I firmly believe it’s worth investigating.”

Administrator hummed, furrowing her brows as she considered the idea. “...It would be a shame if I spared time and resources for a pointless, baseless assumption that holds no water. After all, this may be something rather simple; the work of a newly assigned agent, or an act of revenge. You may just be overthinking this entire situation as a result of your… friendship with the deceased.” The old woman sighed, and slid the paper towards herself. “I will consider the possibility of allowing this case to begin.”

Shoulders sagged, Ms. Pauling felt great relief wash over her former tension. “Thank you, ma’am-”

“Until then, I have an assignment that you should focus on.” 

Although her expression remained as stoic as ever, Ms. Pauling could _hear_ the smirk in the old woman’s voice. That crone wanted to say more than she intended- and Ms. Pauling was more than certain that Administrator knew the younger woman noticed her silent tricks, as the old woman gently tapped her sharp talons-for-nails against her wooden desk with snide content. Nevertheless, Ms. Pauling retained her irritation and listened.

“You recall C’eville, don’t you Ms. Pauling? We visited together. You seemed rather attracted to the town.” She paused, watching the younger woman nod so slowly. “Perfect. Fortunately for you, your next assignment brings you back to that… lovely little attraction. Speak to Ms. Watney for more details- that is not optional this time, Ms. Pauling. There a few things that require attention before you leave.” Administrator’s strong hawk-eyes followed the younger as she stood from her seat and turned for the door. “You should leave as soon as possible. Immediately, yes that would be most preferable.”

“Of course.”

“Caution and vigil, darling; lest you meet your dear friend in the dark.”

Ms. Pauling didn’t turn back to reply; she darted from the room, feeling that boiling tension return just as soon as it left before.

🜚

“Dustbowl.”

New Mexico, USA

June 27th, 1968

1:34 PM

“Soldier! Dammit Soldier, watch your six!”

Combat shotgun in his hands, Soldier whipped around and caught the enemy Spy right before he could step any closer- _boom,_ buckshot right to the face. The spy went down quick, but Soldier wasn’t spared the gore; skull fragments and meaty chunks flew in all directions; the splattered blood and brain fluids coated his chest and the sandy ground below. Soldier’s knees buckled in place. He froze.

“Mary mother of Christ, Soldier!” Engineer called from… somewhere. Soldier couldn’t muster the fight in him to search for his teammate, wherever he stood. Instead Soldier found himself stunned, staring down at the headless body lying limp in the sand. The air around him felt thick, eerily familiar; freshly lit charcoal, or burning wood, and a hint of something strongly metallic. Familiar, and crudely nostalgic.

What laid there in front of him, that was the work of himself. He, Soldier, did that. _He did that._ He’s always done it. He’s always done that. At one point in time, it never bothered him.

“I mean,” The Texan laughed, he was _laughing_ , why was he laughing? “I expected discipline from ya, but that was pretty impressive!”

Fast reflexes are a hell of a thing to have, and Soldier could tell you all about that; not now though. No, he doesn’t want to talk right now. He wants- He wants…

A sudden bright flash emitted from the still body, and in moments the figure dissipated into scattering particles before vanishing completely. For a second Soldier tried to remember if he took his medicine this morning- then he recalled the “respawn” conversation. He expected something strange, but this was a whole level of different. Perplexing, really- what was, wait a moment-

_Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-_

“Everythin’ alright, bud?”

Beneath his boots, the ground rumbled. Vibrated. From afar he heard them. He heard it and he remembered them. He remembered them like music.

_Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-_

They played every key on the Devil’s Piano.

_Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-_

Soldier felt the sudden urge to look up. They were here, and he wanted to see them. He just wanted to _see_ them. He wanted to watch them fly.

Then something- no, someone touched him, his arm.

“Soldier, you should-”

No, no someone- something cold- it’s cold and metallic, it’s- a blade-! A sharp-

“Wait, Sold- AUGH!”

Soldier’s movements were swift. Everything was a reflex to him, as if he were programmed to do this. He grabbed the attacker’s neck, gripped it tightly, and forced him onto the sandy ground. Soldier brought his knee to the attacker’s stomach, pushed his weight onto him, held him still, and used his other hand to search for the blade. 

“St- stop-! Hck- Soldier-!”

There was no blade. No, not possible. He _felt_ it, the sharp metal, the coldness in the attacker’s… hand.

Slowly, attentive, his eyes examined the object of his torment. Attached halfway on his attacker’s forearm was a burnished metallic appendage, shining rods mimicking bone, with a false hand at the end that glistened a brilliant silver as the setting sun jumped against it, glimmering off of its lustrous chrome coating. It was hard to miss it, hard to _not_ notice it: this wasn’t an enemy. This was…

“Engie” Soldier murmured aloud, almost questioning the reality of it.

Weakly the Texan nodded, but he struggled still; he choked against Soldier’s grip, pushing his free, unmodified hand against the knee that dug into his stomach. Realization set in, and Soldier quickly released Engineer, backing away as if he intended to jump and run, but stopped once he put significant distance between himself and his teammate, and leaned against the wall of a nearby building. Engineer gasped for air; he breathed rapidly, gripping at his throat, and struggled between breaths. Soldier contemplated moving to help his teammate, but he couldn’t bring himself to move towards him. Engineer groaned as he strained to push himself up from the ground, dirt and sand falling from his overalls. Gritting his teeth, gripping his abdomen, the Texan stood with shaky legs; he walked, albeit wobbly, towards Soldier, and Soldier felt a deep dark pit swallow himself up. 

Engineer extended a hand to him, and rasped, “C’mon, Soldier.”

Soldier simply stared back. He couldn’t do it. He just _couldn’t._ Engineer leaned towards him with a small smile, but Soldier scooted back as far as the wall would allow him. It wasn’t far at all.

“I ain’t… ya ain’t hurt me none bo, ‘s alright, jus’ c’mon.” The Texan’s weak voice insisted, but Soldier wasn’t sure if _anything_ was alright.

_Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-_

Soldier’s eyes widened, alarmed, and quickly he spoke, _“Flyboys!_ ” 

Engineer cocked a brow. “I don’ think…” He raised a gentle hand in Soldier’s direction, and prayed that he wouldn't provoke a defensive state out of him again. “Soldier, there ain’ no pilots here. What yer hearin’ is pro’lly m’ turrets, er Heavy’s minigun firin’. I know what it sounds like, but that’s just yer mind messin’ with ya. It does that sometimes.” Engineer finally managed to lightly place his unmodded hand on Soldier’s shoulder. Soldier had moved slightly, and his helmet angled over his eyes. That left his expression almost unreadable. 

He couldn’t tell if Soldier was scowling or just staring straight through him. The silence certainly didn’t help any.

Nervous, Engineer chose his next few statements very carefully. “Y’know sometimes, when I smell fresh-baked apple pie, I think m’ granny’s nearby. Can ya believe that? I could be anywhere in the world, far away from her, an’ I’d still think she’s aroun’, bakin’ up some pies.” He smiled. “Silly thing, when yer brain does that.”

Slowly, a tiny smile appeared on Soldier’s face, too. 

Engineer reached for Soldier’s hand, and pulled him away from the wall. He guided Soldier towards one of the many towers dotting the garrison, however this particular one had been where Engineer arranged a, for lack of better word, “campsite.” Engineer returned to guide his turret gun, and Soldier placed himself near the _Dispenser,_ (as Scout called it,) and didn’t plan on moving, it seemed. From below the campsite, a chorus erupted in their ears once again: gunshots after gunshots, screams of both terror and rage, fiery destructive explosions, blood, gore, dust, and dirt flying left and right; it’s the whole nine yards… and Engineer was certain Soldier had seen it all before, and Lord knows what else.

“Ya jus’ keep yerself comfortable, alright Soldier?”

The moment Soldier turned to answer him, the man had collapsed onto the floor, and Engineer had a clear view of an empty syringe sticking out from the back of his neck. The Texan darted his gaze to the white-coated figure that stood across from him, directly behind Soldier’s fallen body. 

“I was looking for this _escapist_. Soldier forgot his medicine earlier today. Yesterday and the day before, as well.” Medic spoke promptly, scowling. “It seems I need to keep a closer eye on him. Like a child.”

Engineer frowned. “Or he didn’ wanna see ya again after that stunt ya pulled a week ago. Can’t blame a man for that.” He argued.

Medic sighed, rolling his eyes. “He will have to get over it. It is either that or eternal suffering.” Roughly he grabbed Soldier by his underarms and lifted him up from the floor. “Either way, these are his problems, not mine.”

“You jus’ love makin’ things more difficult for yerself, dontcha, Doc?” Engineer loured, and shook his head. “Is it really that hard t’ be a good person?”

The doctor scoffed. “Tsk, you and I have two very different meanings behind the word “good,” I’m afraid. If you are unaware, I am taking care of you fools when I do _not_ have to, _Ingenieur._ I am doing this on my _own_ accord, and therefore, what I am doing is, by definition, good.”

“Okay, say whatcha will, ya smartass, jus’ take Soldier somewhere safe.”

With a smirk, Medic turned without hesitation, and dragged Soldier away with him as they departed for the Medbay. The grin quickly faltered the moment various screams for _immediate medical attention_ reached his ears. Medic glanced back at Engineer, who had since returned his efforts to guiding his turrets and no longer paid the doctor any attention. Medic huffed, and moved as fast as he could away from the bellowing chaos below, dragging Soldier along.

🜚

For once, Scout was glad to have taken someone else’s advice. Normally he would have a list of reasons to ignore it, but this time happened to be different.

“Come back here, ya damn brat- UHhF-”

This steel baseball bat was the _shit!_ Perfect for cracking skulls and busting kneecaps. Every asshole in blue would know to run the moment they spotted him.

“You better back up with tha-! AUGH!”

Oh yeah, and the spiked cleats? Scout has had track spikes on his running shoes before, but this is a whole different design. These things are _weapons,_ and he’s never enjoyed kicking someone in the face more than he does now. 

“AGHH! You little fuckin’ bastard!”

Nine dripping stab wounds were left in the enemy Demoman’s scarred face from just one kick with those bad boys, and the big motherfucker toppled over. Maybe, Scout thought as he sprinted away, that’ll encourage him to follow the RED Demoman’s uniform choice and get a full-coverage helmet instead of just eye protection; he’ll have some more scars to add to that collection, anyway. 

“Hope ya like the new look, ya giant fuck!”

BLU Demoman pushed himself to his knees, gripping his bleeding face. Scout didn’t stick around waiting for him to get up again. He sprinted towards the heart of the battle’s commotion, where the BLU Heavy proceeded to be the devil in everyone’s nightmares by just existing. Scout jumped behind a large stone for cover and peered out to watch the commotion from a safe distance.

The BLU Heavy refrained from using his rotary canon, Scout noticed; seems he wanted to just fight with his bare hands and attack anything red within his line of sight instead. Scout may have called the BLU Demoman a big motherfucker, but _this_ guy... He may be just as big as RED’s Heavy, if not bigger. Scout wasn’t sure how long the fight has been so far, but the BLU Heavy was already coated in dirt and blood from head to toe, and that made him all the more terrifying. There was a rather large gash that spread across the center of his dark face; Scout wondered if that was Spy’s doing.

Should he jump in? Scout didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the enemy Heavy’s hands. Engineer’s turret defenses seemed to be doing their job, if they weren’t sabotaged by the enemy Spy or shot down by the enemy Sniper, wherever the hell that guy was hiding. Soldier was nowhere to be found, but the BLU Soldier was tag-teaming with the BLU Pyro and they were tearing shit up down there; Pyro and Heavy seemed to be putting a significant buffer on the BLU’s effort, at least. Even the BLU Medic was taking a stab at his teammates. Literally, with a gigantic saw that is definitely not medically safe. Where was the RED Medic, anyway?

At the corner of his eye, Scout spotted Demoman leaping from one of the building’s windows, and could not believe what he was seeing. Actually, he could, but he couldn’t comprehend what the hell Demoman was doing.

As Demoman descended, he lifted his launcher canon and fired grenades seemingly at random; they landed in a near-perfect circle. Demoman reached for the balcony railing of another building close by. He averted his eye from the field and quickly pressed a small button on the grip of his canon. In a split second, the garrison erupted into a seismic quake.

Scout squeezed his eyes closed and turned his head away, shielded by the stone he hid behind. The rumbling ground threatened to send him sliding down into the mess below. Large rocks and sand flew past him at dangerous speeds; Scout resorted to gripping the giant stone for his own safety. Unless the stone shook loose, he should be fine.

Demoman dropped down from the balcony and decided to get up close and personal with the enemy. It was then that Scout realized Demoman’s stupidity was probably nothing more than an act; he was just very, very brave, because- wow, he knows jujutsu? Scout has watched a handful of martial arts movies, but that’s not the same as watching it happen in person. Demoman moved around the BLUs almost feather light, which is pretty weird with his size considered. The BLU Pyro had dropped mysteriously ( _ahem,_ Spy) as Demoman took down the stunned enemy Soldier almost flawlessly. Heavy and his BLU counterpart faced off in some hand-to-hand combat before Demoman came to his assistance. Scout wondered if Demoman could take on the BLU Heavy-

Well. The BLU Heavy grabbed Demoman before he could evade him and just… snapped his neck and sent him back to respawn. _Shit._ Heavy looked pissed, but the BLU Heavy had him matched in strength, holding him immobile at the moment. Maybe Spy could-

_CRACK!_

The enemy Heavy dropped with a gaping bullet wound on the back of his head. Nevermind then. Looks like Sniper finally decided to come out and play.

How Sniper somehow managed to miss Heavy when the bullet exited the BLU Heavy’s forehead is not a miracle, but a show of Sniper’s impressive skill. He must have taken minutes calculating the perfect moment to shoot. 

Scout still planned on complaining about how long it took him to do something, though. 

Spy reappearered beside Heavy and Pyro; so far, it looked safe- safe enough by Scout's (limited) judgement, anyway. With the enemy Heavy, Soldier, and Pyro down for the moment, Scout stood up from behind his stone of defense and took a step forward to rejoin his teammates. He hoped that the BLUs would finally give up after Demoman’s legendary plan earlier. He’d have to say something to the Scotsman about that-

“ _Pieni jänis. Hyvästi._ ”

_Shnnk!_

🜚

At the alarming sound of an eerily short scream, Heavy, Spy, and Pyro quickly turned towards their right. Sliding down a stony cliff was the lifeless body of Scout. He fell face-first onto a rock below, flipped forwards, and rolled until he collided with Heavy’s boot. The Russian, stunned, stared at the thin entrance wound in Scout’s head, and soon recognized the shape of it; after a moment, Heavy recalled the weapon that caused it: a puukko knife, Finnish in origin.

“He has been shooting us down and stabbing the ones he could not.” Spy explained quickly. “Make no mistake, our enemy Sniper knows what he is doing, and he knows it well. Heavy, I would suggest that you take cover. I will find him.”

Spy gestured for Pyro to follow him. Pyro happily complied, babbling something unintelligible to anyone except himself. Spy extended his hand to Pyro, who eagerly grabbed it, and the two vanished from sight. Heavy moved, unsure of where to go, but certain that he didn’t want- or need- to be alone. Closely he watched his surroundings, checking for any lingering blue dots, and took every step with utmost caution. Heavy decided the garrison walls provided more safety for him, and stayed close. Windows and openings could have anyone on the other side; Heavy avoided them. 

The Russian slowly eased around a wide corner into a heavily damaged area of the garrison. The air was thick with ash and smoke, and some burnt buildings were left smoldering still. Heavy passed a fallen structure, and eyed it curiously; the thought of rebuilding and repairing the damaged garrison town with his teammates was certainly an interesting one. Many things would go wrong, he was sure of that, but mistakes are eventful, and as lively as his teammates are, Heavy felt that they could make otherwise indifferent things most memorable, regardless of what it was.

Heavy circled another corner and met face-to-face with a P38 pistol. Startled, he tightly grabbed the hand that held it. A pale face, half-lidded stark blue eyes, and a down-turned German scowl stared back at him. Heavy sighed, and released the doctor’s hand.

“Be careful who you point gun at.” Heavy warned.

“Look at this from my perspective, Heavy.” Medic hissed. “I am here, on the ground, assisting an injured comrade,” The doctor gestured towards Demoman leaning against the wall of a damaged building with a burnt and bleeding arm. “...and I hear someone approaching from a blind spot. What would _you_ have done? Hm?” Medic huffed and dropped back down to his knees.

The doctor tightened the bloody bandage wrap around Demoman’s arm and held his hand against it. He grabbed another wrap and tightened it around the wounded arm. 

“Is it uncomfortable?” Medic asked.

Demoman groaned. “Ev’ryrhin’s uncomf’table right now, doc. But nie, ‘m fine. Thankye.”

Medic turned to Heavy. “I will have to move him somewhere safer than here. He’s vulnerable at the moment.”

“I will help.” Heavy replied. “Protect Doktor from harm. Protect Demoman from more harm. Heavy is shield, no one will break Heavy.”

“How generous.” Medic mused. “If you insist.”

Effortlessly Heavy lifted Demoman from the wall, and helped him into Medic’s arms. He stood close behind Medic and Demoman as they traversed through the ash and debris. Heavy watched cautiously for any lingering blue dots or shadows behind windows; he felt a strong sense of responsibility now. Protect Doktor. Protect Demoman.

🜚

Spy wondered if he knew this man. The enemy Sniper seemed _far_ too skilled in silence and camouflage to not have had some sort of training. Each moment Spy believed he was close by, the trail disappeared. It seemed impossible… unless you understood how it worked. No, Spy was certain now. This man had training. He might know this man.

That is what unsettled him the most.

It’s one thing to have friends in the academy. In Spy’s personal experience, it’s better to have friends than not- but it’s _worse_ to have enemies. No amount of friends in the entire academy can protect you from even _one_ pissed-off agent. In this situation, what would be worse? The BLU Sniper being a former friend or current enemy?

As far as Spy could recall, he did not know an agent who specialized in ranged weapons- not personally. He didn’t know anyone who used a puukko as a blade of choice, either; although, it has been quite some time since he has visited the academy. Some things may have changed.

Spy and Pyro have been searching towers for what seemed like ages. He understood the tactical advantage of having various hiding places for the mercenaries that the garrison town was _housing_ , but it was an absolute pain to track down the enemies that decided to take advantage of the town’s spaciousness.

Spy paused. “Pyro, check that corner.”

Pyro expelled flame in the corner as Spy directed. Nothing happened. Spy scowled. This was getting ridiculous. Pyro muttered quickly, rapidly tugging at the Frenchman’s coat, attempting to pull him away. Spy turned to the maniacally mumbling man, unsure of what to do. He couldn’t understand what Pyro was saying. 

“He is laughing at you, _bolond._ ”

Spy flinched. He turned left and right, searching the empty room for any disturbance. He had to be nearby, somewhere. 

“Not your masked friend. Sakari is laughing. He finds your efforts amusing.”

He grimaced. That accent… was not that of a Finn. _Sakari_? He didn’t recognize that name. “Pyro, check over there.”

Pyro rushed to another corner, expelling flame once again, but the fire met with nothing. Growling, Spy directed Pyro back and forth, room to room, yet the two, over and over, found absolutely _nothing_. 

“You are not accustomed to being annoyed, are you Janvier?”

_This man knew his name._ Spy’s frustration began to eat him alive. If this man, wherever the hell he was, knew Spy- knew his name at least- then Spy _knew_ this man, too. 

“You are usually the one who annoys. You _love_ to get under the skin, as they say.”

That accent, it was eastern, perhaps? Almost Germanic in sound, but not quite; it was off somewhat. Spy could not place where he had heard it before. He could not recall who this man _was._

“I had hoped to pick you off on my own, but retribution seemed pointless here. It would be expected, you see. It would not surprise anyone.” 

Retribution. Spy thought for a moment. Retaliation. Revenge? Revenge against him. He wanted revenge, but for what?

A gust of bright flame erupted in a far room, several paces away from Spy. Light footsteps rushed across the corridor’s wooden flooring, attempting to escape the flames. Spy quickly stepped directly in front of the tower’s exit. An invisible body collided with his own, and pushed him to the floor. Spy grabbed at the BLU Spy’s pellucid coat, ripping the transparency device straight from its source. As the BLU Spy dissipated into view, Spy grabbed the collar of his coat, flipped him over onto the floor, and grabbed his wrists to prevent any attacks. 

The BLU Spy’s face was concealed behind a mask and some sort of optoelectronic goggles. Spy frowned; it seemed he wasn’t the only one actually protecting his identity here. 

“I must admit Janvier, I am surprised you cannot remember me. You seemed to enjoy insulting me and my entire family back then. You did it so much, how could you forget?”

Spy tightened his grip on the enemy Spy’s wrists. “Allow me to make this very simple for you: Tell. Me.”

“Apologies _kedvesem,_ I was savoring the neglect.” He laughed. “My name is Iszák Csorba, from Nyíregyháza. We knew each other well, once. I would have called us _friends._ ”

Iszák Csorba. _Csorba,_ the Hungarian. 1947, transferred to the academy in Bordeaux and placed in _Opérations Spéciales..._

_Csorba._ Spy felt his blood pressure skyrocket.

BLU Spy spoke as if he were grinning. “You remember me now. I can see it through that mask; you are filled with immense anger and are mere seconds from stabbing me.”

“You… ruined my _reputation._ My _life!_ ” Spy hissed. “For the sake of _nothing._ Just because you _could!_ ”

“ _Nem,_ You will deny it to this day, but you know why I did it, Janvier.”

“I will not hear this!” From his coat pocket, Spy grabbed his balisong, flipped it open, and brought it to the BLU Spy’s throat. “There is no excuse for what you did. I refuse to hear your defense.”

Retribution. Spy would have laughed if he weren't focused on the blade in his hand. Csorba wanted _retribution._ If anyone should be allowed to have revenge, then it will be _Janvier._

“You will take your pride to your grave.” BLU Spy mused.

“And you take your repulsive _covetous!”_

With one swift flick, Spy had sliced a deep, spurting gash across the enemy Spy’s neck. There was no retort, no retaliation; only silence. Spy waited, just to be sure. The BLU Spy slowly dissipated into glowing blue particles as his body was sent back to respawn. 

A familiar, friendly hand pulled at Spy’s coat. Pyro mumbled something happily, pointing towards the tower’s corridor. Spy stood up and walked towards what had Pyro so excited. In the corridor laid a body that appeared to have been... mutilated with an ax. It certainly wasn’t Spy’s desired murder tactic, but Pyro appeared to be proud of himself. 

Spy crouched down to examine the body before it vanished. He pulled down the hood of the enemy’s sandy brown cloak and studied his face. He too wore a mask, but only over his lower face. Spy quickly discarded it. A rather prominent scar across the right side of his mouth that ended at the center of his neck. Spy had difficulty picturing what could have possibly done that.

This was the BLU Sniper. He was the only mercenary Spy had not seen yet; now he knows what to look for: bright blonde hair that will more than likely be covered by a large cloak, and blue eyes also shielded by the cloak.

As the body began to disappear, Spy turned to leave the tower with Pyro following closely behind. “I suppose that was Sakari.” Spy thought aloud; he never knew when Pyro was listening or not, but he didn’t particularly care at the moment. “I’ve never known a Finn to be in Bordeaux, which makes me wonder how Iszák knew him.”

Pyro replied, but Spy couldn’t pick out what he had said.

🜚

“Dustbowl.”

New Mexico, USA

June 27th, 1968

9:22 PM

A blaring alarm signified the moment that the BLU mercenaries had finally retreated under the setting sun, but that did not mean that RED's troubles were over. A significant portion of the garrison town had been destroyed by the attack, and would need to be repaired. The mercenaries collectively decided that rebuilding would have to wait; at the moment, they needed to reflect on what had happened out there. The chaos, confusion, complications, and how absolutely disorganized they were. They had no tact or flow, nor any synchronization with each other whatsoever. There was a glaring lack of understanding between them, and that needed to change. Quickly.

Medic had spent much of the night hours stitching his teammates' gashes, wrapping their burns, and in two cases, making splints for their legs. When he had released them from the medbay, he advised that loose clothing would be more comfortable to wear against the stitches and wrap, unless you _“enjoy the feeling of being eaten alive by ants.”_ Scout proceeded to argue that there was no logical way ants would be able to get inside his bandages and eat him. Medic pointed out that the tremble in the boy’s voice proved Scout wasn’t entirely convinced; Scout fled the room as quickly as his splint leg would allow him.

🜚

Before anyone had fallen into bed, Engineer requested for the team to gather in the commons room; even though the mercenaries would rather be sleeping off today’s stress, Engineer emphasized the importance of it, the benefits that they would have otherwise ignored, but the Texan had an expression that was hard to say “fuck off” to. Sniper took much longer to convince, but soon complied, if not slightly begrudgingly.

The mercenaries settled surprisingly quietly in the dimly lit commons room, but Engineer knew that the silence wouldn’t last very long. Scout and Spy took their seats at the ovular shaped table adjacent to the commons’ kitchen. To Spy’s immediate disdain, Scout decided to sit backwards in the chair like the delinquent he was; lacking any respect for the expensive furniture. Soldier and Demoman watched from another table a short distance away, drinking and amused as Spy scolded Scout for his behavior; the boy completely ignored everything the Frenchman said. A few moments passed; Pyro shuffled down the stairs from the Bastion’s second floor, adjusting his mask and searching for somewhere to sit. He spotted Medic reading a thick book on the red sofa near the large stone hearth, and decided that was the place to be. Pyro quickly stepped towards the doctor and plopped down next to him. Medic didn’t look up from his novel, nor say a single word. 

Heavy stood a slight ways from the hearth, watching his teammates shuffle around, and Engineer’s honorable amount of patience he somehow still had. The Texan stood at the wall farthest from the commons’ entrance, with a small smile on his face. Heavy had come to admire the shorter man’s persistence. Engineer seems to be only one of their team trying his hardest to make the best of their situation; with his kind heart and strong words, Heavy was certain that Engineer could bring their dysfunctional team together.

The commons’ doors quietly opened, and Sniper finally stepped inside, royally late. As Engineer expected, he moved towards the corner closest to the exit and leaned into it, crossing his arms.

"Thank y’all for sparin’ yer time for this.” Engineer greeted as Sniper settled into his favorite corner. “I know y’all're tired. But this is very important. We should have already had this conversation. Even though we "won" today, there were still some pretty big failures that don’ need to be ignored, fellas.”

Engineer seemed to have caught their attention. Hopefully, he thought, this won’t be too difficult. 

“We’ve gotta get to an understandin’ here.” He continued. “There were many, many things that could have been avoided if we just listened to each other. Half of the garrison is still smolderin’ because we had no _plan_ yet. The days we spent fussin’ amongst each other should have been used gettin’ ready for somethin’ like this.” Engineer gestured towards his teammates. “So we’re gonna take some time, right now, t’ clear this mess up while it’s still fresh on the mind.”

Scout scooted forwards in his chair and waved his hand up high. “Okay can I go first?” He asked. Engineer nodded. “Alright cool. Sniper hid in the nests the whole time, an’ I don’ think that should be allowed, because he could not be doin’ anythin’ an’ nobody would know it. I mean, I saw him shoot the Heavy but that was it-”

“Shut ya hole. I was pickin’ off turrets and blues. Engie can vouch for that.” Sniper countered with a growl. “I saw _you_ hidin’ behind a rock watchin’ the Heavy strangle necks with ya tail between ya legs like a beat up puppy. Before ya got stabbed through ya noggin’, anyway.”

Scout scowled. He didn't want to remember that. “An’ ya didn’ manage t’ shoot the bastard after he stabbed me!?”

Sniper shrugged. “Fucker disappeared before I could. Bogan’s got some skill.”

With a pout, Scout crossed his arms over the top of the chair, and spoke not another word; his face burned red as he strained to keep his mouth closed.

Spy had quietly scoffed at the “skill” remark Sniper made about his BLU counterpart. What would that _bushman_ know about skill?

“More of a mongrel rogue, if anything.” said Spy with offhand distaste. “I will admit, finding him was more than a struggle, though.” 

At the mention of their hunt for the enemy Sniper, Pyro turned to Spy and happily clapped his hands. Spy wasn’t sure what Pyro had been thinking of that made him regard the event so joyously. 

“Medic disappeared.” Heavy spoke up suddenly. He glanced towards the doctor, and watched how the German’s hand had twitched slightly on his book’s pages at the mention of himself. “Did not see him for some time. Team needed help but he did not come. Not until while later.”

“Soldier needed to be taken back to the Medbay.” Engineer replied. “Medic had to-”

“I can explain myself, thank you!” The doctor hissed. Engineer raised a defensive hand, and quieted himself. Medic turned his head to his teammates, glaring at every one of them. “Soldier had been neglecting his own health and was not well enough to be out there. I had to bring him back inside to the Medbay. After I tended to him, I came back. I did not abandon _anyone_ , I was not ignoring my _responsibility._ ”

“Let that be a lesson learned for ya, doc.” Engineer insisted. “Yer teammates need ya on the battleground just as much as they need ya here. Ya need to show ‘em that _you_ actually care about ‘em, an’ maybe they’ll be grateful that yer even here.”

Medic jerked around, facing the Texan with a sharp glare. He opened his mouth, prepared to eloquently spit venomous words his way; something had caught his tongue, though, and Medic averted his eyes back to his novel. 

Demoman patted Soldier’s back with a grin. The edges of Soldier’s mouth upturned slightly, but disappeared just as quickly. Soldier swished his glass of water around and around, watching the liquid turn.

“Tomorrow,” Engineer concluded, “We will begin repairs, then we will meet in the trainin’ room and start workin’ on some drill routines. We’ll put together different stratagems an’ outwit these blues next time they show up, an’ this time, we won’t lose half of our damn garrison.”

“Drill?” Soldier repeated with interest. “Heh, I can think of some exercises that’ll keep these boys busy.”

“I’ll be happy to hear it tomorrow, Soldier.” Engineer grinned, and stepped away from the wall. “Alright, everybody’s dismissed.”

Soldier snorted out a light laugh, and said, “Nah, you did it wrong, Engie.” He stood up from the table, and quickly moved into the “attention” stance. Mere seconds passed before Soldier suddenly, and very deeply, bellowed out, “DIIIIS-MISSED!”

“...Wow, ye got some pipes on ye Solly, that was impressive!” Demoman laughed.

“Heheh, I can’t do all that now.” said Engineer. “I barely yell at m’ youngi- kids, I mean. I don’ like yellin’ at kids. Yellin’ just ain’t m’ thing.” He laughed quite awkwardly, and hoped nobody had caught it.

Heavy stomped towards Engineer, intent on entering the conversation. “Heavy does not like yelling either, but does sometimes. When mad, usually. Heavy does not like to be mad.” He turned to Soldier. “Soldier had good yell. Voice like commander in resistance. Very powerful. Would move people.”

Quietly Spy moved towards the Bastion’s stairwell, refraining from eye contact with the four. “Yes that was rather fascinating, but never do it again. Thank you.”

Spy ascended up the stairs without another word; Pyro hopped off of the sofa and sprinted after him. Heavy glanced over to the sofa where Medic sat still, reading his novel.

“If only you would take your own advice.” Medic grumbled seemingly to himself.

Heavy did not know if he had referred to Spy, or what was happening in the book.

A very sudden, loud slam echoed through the wide commons room, followed by a short yell. The four men rotated around, finding Scout hissing on the floor, holding his splint leg. The chair he had been sitting in had fallen over but was close by. 

“Dammit,” he groaned, “I dunno what it is about these things, man! They just hate me! It’s like- fuck, these chairs are out to get me!” Scout stood up, lifting the chair and pushing it back under the table. He limped towards the commons exiting doors and pushed them open, yelling, “I swear I’m never sitting in another damn chair again!” ...and closed the doors behind him. Silence.

“...Snotty li'l boyo seemed pretty angry about it, eh lads?” Demoman chimed happily.

The Scotsman's out-of-the-blue remark had been well received, and the four couldn’t contain their laughter. The bright grinning faces of his teammates brought immense joy to Demoman's heart.

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The BLU Team appears more in the future, as they are a part of the bigger picture here. Ms. Pauling's second visit to C'eville will put more pieces of that bigger picture together.
> 
> Also, the BLU Team has a Sniper with additional Spy skills, so that seems a little unfair, doesn't it? Eight people with only one Medic is also kind of imbalanced, too. This is remedied later on though.
> 
> One more thing: Just like the issue with the Medics and the Medi-Guns, the Engineers have not developed any teleporters or fully upgraded their sentries or dispensers yet. These things happen over time.
> 
> (The missing scene with Soldier and Medic in the Medbay is covered in an extra chapter. Spy's past relations are elaborated on as well, later on.)
> 
> Another note: Growing up deep in the south is different than growing up in Texas, obviously (That state is HUGE.) I have relatives in various states below the Mason-Dixon, and even though they're all southern states, each state has its own culture. I use prior knowledge as a basis for more research, because I want the characters to feel legitimate. 
> 
> That being said, I'm not sure if the average Texan even uses the term (my relatives do, but that's not the same thing), but I just really wanted Engie to say "bo." Haha.


	21. Reinen Vernunft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This is the missing scene with Soldier and Medic in the Medbay. (And a little snippet after Engie's lecture.) 
> 
> (If you need to go back and read "Meet the Medic," feel free to do so. There are a few things mentioned that relate back to the events there.) 
> 
> Warnings: Nothing that hasn't already been mentioned before. However, if concepts of existentialism and metaphysics makes you nervous, then tread carefully. These ideas are discussed extensively here.
> 
> We'll catch up to what the other mercs are up to later.
> 
> NOTES: 
> 
> \- The episode Soldier is having here is not the same as the one in the previous chapter.
> 
> \- If you haven't seen them yet, there's Character Profile Art under Meet The Scout and Meet The Soldier! Eventually, there will be one under every "Meet" chapter.

_Once you catch a whiff of gun smoke, it’s a stench you will never forget. A pungent, acrid odor it is; like that of freshly lit charcoal, burning wood, and a hint of something strongly metallic. The sour scent holds thick in your lungs, irritating your eyes and nose after a while._

_Eventually, you get used to the power of that smell. You have to. You have to push on. You have to go._

_They just keep falling._

_It’s not over yet. It won’t be for a long time. Three- four- a hundred shots. Those Krauts drop like flies._

_Someone calls your name._

_They just keep falling._

_Rifles and shotguns won’t do much good against Bandits. The sight of one rushing in from the sky drops your stomach to the floor. The moment they spot you, you’re marked for death._

_You look up to the racing engines above._

_Wait._

_Quickly they emerge from dark clouds, your saving grace in the form of speeding fighter aircrafts, shaded deep olive green._

_Wait._

_Listening to the Flyboys overhead, firing away, gives a real sense of relief._

_Boom!_ _Bogie down._

_With flaming engines and aircraft debris falling from the sky, it’s wise to move away as quickly as possible._

_They just keep falling._

_Someone calls your name._

_“…”_

_Someone yelling ahead._

_“...Doe!”_

_Someone..._

_“Doe, c’mon! They’re circling overhead, we gotta move unless we wanna get canned into mush!”_

_You know him._

_“Don’t forget, I owed you one. I never would have made it out of Nijmegen without you, so today I’m gonna pay my dues. We’re in this together, Doe. We’ll make it out, you and me.”_

_His name was Henry Strummer. He was your best friend._

_“You think they’ll give us a break, Doe? After all we’ve done?”_

_You felt it again. The prickling cold, the thick frozen blankets beneath you, swallowing you up. You remember that dark day in December, freezing to death in France and Belgium; the Germans, undeterred, crept quietly through the fog._

_You thought of the old French nurse in Wallonia, who gave out warm blankets and mittens to the soldiers there; she seemed to care more about their health and vain efforts than his countrymen did, but you couldn’t blame the men for hardly giving a damn about their own wellbeing._

_They were left starving in the snow, with small rations and limited supplies. You watched them suffer, and you suffered with them._

_...._

_In northeastern France, they waited in the snow, with stiff fingers and aching feet. They said nothing, sitting idly with flushed noses and cheeks burned pink from the constant icy breeze. They shivered, and silently, they waited._

_"Doe… Hey, Doe....”_

_You heard Strummer speak up beside you, and stiffly turned to meet his weak gaze._

_“Do you think we’ll win? After all this failure?” Strummer had asked, no fear in those gray eyes; only loss, he was solemn; his former buoyant self had been darkened from this absolute disaster._

_It was their deaths, you knew it. The men they were before they had been snatched, dragged kicking and screaming into this war… those men were gone. They were nothing but walls of brick and stone now, hardened from watching this continental devastation, this destruction, this genocide… but in the end,_

_“...Have faith, Strummer.” You rasped. “It’s all we have.”_

_Was it worth it?_

_“I do,” Strummer whispered. “I pray every day, Doe.”_

_They came out victorious; after suffering through this Hell, by God’s will, they_ **_won_ ** _..._

_“I know. I do too.” You had replied quietly._

_But at what cost?_

_Strummer rubbed his gloved hands together. “It’s so damn cold here, Doe.” He shivered and adjusted his helmet over his blonde hair. “I’m becoming an icicle.”_

_You pulled your bag through the thick snow and sat it next to him. You opened it and pulled out a large decorated blanket, then threw it over you both._

_Strummer laughed as he pulled the blanket around himself. “Where did you get this?”_

_“A nurse in Wallonia gave it to me.” You replied._

_“Are you even supposed to have it?”_

_“Probably not.”_

_Strummer scooted closer to you, wrapping the blanket closer around you. Within a few minutes, you both were comforted with the coziness of warmth._

_..._

_Out of every man you had met, Strummer was different. He was the only one you trusted, the only one you felt_ **_could_ ** _be completely trusted. He had no vendettas, no thirst to kill, and no claims of vengeance. He didn’t seek out violence, he wasn’t crass as he spoke, and he respected everyone. Henry Strummer was an honest, God-fearing man, and a damn good friend. You had exchanged stories with him, spoke of better days, and plans after the war. He told you about his sisters, his farm, the struggles and triumphs of his family. You didn’t have anything as interesting as that to tell. He didn’t mind._

_“Do you think it’s worth it?” You had asked one day. It was out of the blue, but Strummer knew what you meant. “What we do here, will it matter at all?”_

_Strummer thought for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossed his face. “Well, in a way, yeah. Yeah, I think so. ‘Cause, y’know, when it comes to stuff like this, to tragedy- It’s happened all throughout history. Every nation across this planet has fought before. But, heroes weren’t just remembered by statues or memorials, y’know? They went down through tales and legends. Gilgamesh, Hercules, and King Arthur, those guys were remembered through stories told over and over again.” He paused to smile, then laughed before continuing, “Yeah, a monument would be cool, but I would love to see how_ **_our_ ** _story gets told decades from now. I think… I think a Greek philosopher had a saying just like that, actually. “What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone, but what is woven into the lives of others.” Yeah, something like that.”_

_You laughed, and replied, “Heh, there would be plenty of stories from this band of idiots to tell.”_

_“What, like when Marshall put crushed-up soap powder in the sergeant’s mashed potatoes and we all got the sock?”_

_“In our defense,” You grinned, “The sergeant was a real ear-beater.”_

_Strummer happily shook his head, beaming. “Yeah, heh, yeah he was. Y’know, I wrote a letter to my mom that day, told her as much as I could about it. Told her about you too, Doe. Said she wanted to meet you one day. What do you think?”_

_The two of you had planned to meet up after the war finally ended._

_..._

  
  


_“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone, but what is woven into the lives of others.” Death is inevitable, but your memory lives on. Morbid still, but somewhat comforting as a passing thought. At least, it had been. You were convinced that you would survive, and you could return to your life. You had made it this far, after all, you and Strummer. When this is all over, the two of you would leave Europe forever and meet the people Strummer talked about so much, just like he wanted; he could finally go home, and you would actually_ **_live_ ** _again._

_Then on that day, that dark day in December, as the two of you froze nearly to death in France, the Germans crept on. The unmistakable sound of rapid gunfire erupted nearby and drew closer far too quickly. Explosions rumbled the snowy ground beneath your boots. You rose, gripping your gun. The other men within your squad jumped to their feet, and moving on pure adrenaline, they rushed to defend. Strummer stood up, dropping the blanket for his gun, and tore from your side. He bolted to join the others, and you trailed behind._

_“Doe, where-!”_

_But adrenaline can’t save you from point-blank shots._

_On that dark day in December, you watched him; wide eyes bubbled with tears, you stood there and watched Henry Strummer keel over and die with bloody hands clutched over his heart._

🜚

The Medbay’s lights were annoyingly dim, but the doctor has yet to get the them fixed. At the moment though, he had _much_ bigger problems than worrying about the lighting. Soldier laid stiff and unconscious on the medical bed, and Medic stood over him, perplexed. He wasn’t particularly thrilled to be in this situation. Frankly, he believed Soldier’s issues at this point should not be his concern. Medic had taken his (very valuable) time to form a perfect schedule for the man; it listed what times to take his medication in an order that would be most efficient, for both Soldier and the doctor himself. It would be different than what Soldier had been used to before, but it would have been effective and there should have been no major side effects from it. Regardless, the fool chose to instead avoid the doctor altogether, and messed this up for everyone- and for what? Something as childish as teasing? Medic couldn’t help but laugh.

The doctor chuckled to himself. What a fool. In the cabinets above his desk, he grabbed a small drinking glass and a few bottles of medication, then sat them down on the silver tray next to the medical bed. Records had claimed that the doctors who cared for Soldier’s state had the man on six separate prescriptions. Medic’s brows deeply furrowed the moment he read, and processed, that. Americans seemed to believe the best way to treat someone’s mental illnesses is to drug them into submission. Of course. Why attempt to learn from a patient when you can just suppress the thing they’re fighting with?

Quietly humming a song, Medic opened the bottles and grabbed a tablet from each one. When Soldier awoke, he would either take these tablets, or Medic would resort to needles. The doctor considered injection while he remained unconscious, but that would be a chemical mixture Soldier might not wake up from.

The consequences weren’t worth the attempt.

As the sedatives flushed from Soldier’s system, Medic wondered if he should consider giving him more powerful neuroleptics. It wasn’t as if the man was completely insane- Medic _knows_ what that looks like; the doctor has dealt with people who couldn't tell the floor from the ceiling. Soldier wasn't damaged to that degree, but Medic found himself picturing how these battles could break him down in the future.

The man’s strange behavior, how he drags himself, his sudden reactions and speech patterns; it was certainly that of a man who has experienced horrible moments in his life, but unable to find proper relief from the memories. When unhindered, Soldier acts on impulse and tendencies, and attempted restraint can erupt into chaos and result in explosive behavior. There are a few teammates Soldier shares these characteristics with, Medic noted. However, each man copes with their problems differently. Soldier seemed to be on the safer end of the psychosis branch than the Scottish drunkard he called a friend.

Though, Soldier certainly _needed_ a friend. Despite what the constant warring and hatred spreading across the globe would have you believe, humans generally appreciate each other more than many realize. Place the abandoned, the lonely, and the suffering together; they’ll grab onto each other and never let go, like lost birds huddled against one another sharing warmth in the winter. Even the most apathetic and detached people long to find companionship, though perhaps not friendship of the human kind; animals have historically been wonderful alternatives.

Medic glanced at the metal rod that hung from the Medbay’s dark ceiling, where a small flock of white doves rested quietly above. The largest one, whom the doctor had affectionately named Archimedes, sat in the center of the group. He opened his dark eyes slightly, before closing them again. Medic smiled.

Regardless of your preference for company, social lives have a major effect on the developed- or developing- mind. What Soldier’s previous doctors were doing didn’t help him; it had damaged Soldier, if anything. Constant isolation, limited socialization, with a mountain of prescriptions… Medic found it hard to believe those idiots _didn’t_ know what they were doing.

Medic grabbed the small glass and filled it with water from the sink. He turned on his heel and moved towards the bed to sit the glass down, but he paused as his eyes fell upon an eerie sight. In his silent rest, a small stream of tears had fallen down Soldier’s cheeks. His face had paled into an off-colored ashen gray; Medic reminded himself that the man normally had a tan complexion, and the situation turned extremely discomforting. 

It was safe to say, Medic believed, that Soldier appeared as if he were dead, and the doctor had to double-check the man’s pulse to reassure himself that he wasn’t. 

This was something beyond the physical, internal and immeasurable by simple machines; this was the work of psychosis. Whatever had manifested within Soldier’s unconscious mind was bringing him, his physical self, to tears. Medic’s discomfort grew much greater, and quickly he averted his eyes from Soldier’s still frame. He was a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist, nor a psychologist. His understanding of the human psyche was embarrassingly basic- too basic for his liking, at least. Medic reminded himself to open up some academic texts concerning psychosis again. Caring for these men would be a learning experience, indeed. 

For a moment the doctor considered forcing Soldier awake, but whichever method he could use had the possibility of negative outcomes. Soldier might not respond well, and Medic didn’t want to give him a perfect excuse to attack.

Begrudgingly, Medic went with a more gentle solution.

The doctor placed the glass down near the sink, then pressed his hands lightly against Soldier’s arm, and weakly pushed. The physical contact should be enough to catch some attention; the sedative was well out of his system at this point. When Soldier failed to respond, Medic decided to do something he has never done before. Today had been the time for many firsts, it seems.

_“Herr Soldier,”_ The doctor whispered to him, “Perhaps it would be in your best interest to awaken.”

The larger man stirred, but did not regain consciousness. Medic groaned. He considered injection once more, but refrained. He continued to gently nudge Soldier, repeating his class name, and watching for a response. This would be much easier if he knew more about Soldier. People trapped in comatose have been observed to respond to conversations about memories and past events, with slight hand or feet movements, eye twitches, facial movement, and even abrupt noises as replies. The difference, of course, is that Soldier is not comatose… at least he shouldn’t be. Medic had checked for severe brain trauma after he had brought him into the Medbay, and found no significant damage aside from what had already been recorded before by previous doctors.

The previous doctors that succeeded in nothing but ruining this man’s life. 

In the years of his medical career, Medic has learned one thing for certain: _nothing is definite._ It is a paradoxical statement, but like all paradoxes, it’s as truthful as the truth can be. While continuous trials in experimentation can prove something to be _most_ true, it is not _always_ true. This applies heavily to the physical aspects of the medical field. You can perform everything by the book; every extraction flawless, every cut cleanly, every movement fast and fluid, but your patient could still die. Most would say that the patient is the uncontrollable factor in this scenario, and that would also be true, but that is where the Certain Truth applies once again: nothing is definite.

Many doctors attempt to ignore the philosophical side of the sciences. Medic grunted, tapping the silver tray under his gloved fingers. Fools, all of them. Although he has only partially explored the fascinating beauty of philosophy and its branches, Medic has come to accept its place within science, as it persists in every field: Medicine, Psychology, Mathematics, Astrology, Biology, and Sociology. The branches of philosophy intertwine with the branches of science often, it’s hard to ignore. This type of thinking can be traced back to the Greek scholars of ancient civilization. Geniuses they were, with what little resources they had, they let their brains wander, and left the modern world their work, their names, to build from.

“‘What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone, but what is woven into the lives of others.’” Medic recited aloud, “As Euripides once said.” A dove cooed above at the mention of his name. Medic chuckled. “Not you, Euripedes. The other one.”

A glance at Soldier had brought the doctor back to the present. Medic adjusted his glasses, and sighed. Enough existential thinking for now, he had a situation to handle. Perhaps he had something on his bookshelf to work off of.

Medic turned to step towards the bookshelf, then froze at the sound of a loud clatter. He turned; a large hand had turned his entire table over. The silver tray and tablets were scattered across the floor. Medic moved towards Soldier, and slowly reached for his arm. Half a second passed, and Soldier’s stark blue eyes flew open; wild and maniac, he jolted up and tore himself from the bed. Medic reached for the larger man’s arm, gripped it tightly, and attempted to pull him back down, but Soldier swivelled around, and shoved the doctor away from him. Medic, however, was undeterred. He reached for Soldier’s arm again, and forced him onto his back, pressing him down onto the medical bed again. 

“Behave yourself!” Medic fought to restrain him. Soldier wasn’t exactly a weak man in any way, except perhaps intellectually. “Or I will be forced to use _less_ friendly methods here!”

With his arms held behind him, Soldier grunted and kicked high, aiming at Medic’s face, He seemed intent on ripping it right off of the doctor’s shoulders. “Get your filthy fucking hands off of me, you goddamn Nazi!”

“I am _not_ a Nazi! I am your doctor, you idiot! I am trying-!”

A steel-toed boot struck Medic right underneath his chin, snapping his jaw shut, and sent him flying backwards. He collided with the bookshelf, and took it with him as he tumbled to the ground. Now freed, Soldier sat up, breathing heavily and clutching his chest. With widened eyes, he quickly examined the darkened room surrounding him. The low lighting made observation difficult, but judging from the signs, pictures, and diagrams on the walls, Soldier was confident this wasn’t Europe, and from the high-tech equipment, it certainly wasn’t Canton, either. 

“Where…”

Books fell from Medic’s back as the doctor struggled to his feet. He rubbed his sore jaw pitifully, and quickly adjusted his coat. Soldier watched him closely.

“You’re in New Mexico, Soldier.” Medic groaned. “You recall being here for over a week now, _ja?_ ”

Soldier pondered this statement. “...Yes.” He replied, with weak confidence.

“Will you allow me to help you?” Medic hissed, feeling how tender his jaw had become. “I will not hurt you, Soldier. That is not why I am here.”  
  


“Well, you sure as Hell didn’t make that obvious before.” Soldier snapped. “You’re not getting anywhere near me. I will make damn _sure_ of that.”

“Then do not worry about me.” The doctor offered. “Help yourself, for everyone else’s sake. After this, you can forget that I exist.” Medic turned to pick his books up from the floor, and quietly added, “That would be best for the both of us.” 

Soldier considered the idea. “...What do you need to do?”

Medic placed the final book onto the shelf, then turned towards the bed. From the floor, he pushed the table back up, placed the silver tray atop it once more and discarded the contaminated tablets. He stepped over to the sink, and grabbed the glass he had placed there earlier, then handed it to Soldier. The larger man eyed it harshly.

“Drink this, it should help.” Medic directed.

Soldier wanted to say something, but held it. He brought the glass to his mouth, and Medic stepped away, circling the bed. A sudden, swift arm trapped Soldier’s neck in its grip, and a sharp stab entered a thick vein within his neck. Soldier shouted, dropping the glass, and grabbed at the doctor’s arm, but Medic trapped him in the chokehold until he was confident that the drug had taken effect. 

“This- _gah!-_ will make up for all the d- days you _skipped_ treatment.” The doctor attempted to explain; he fought to keep Soldier restrained, “In about ten minutes, you will be reasonable.”

...

It didn’t take as long as Medic had expected, actually. Only a few minutes. Soldier’s aggression had fallen, his resistance weakened, and Medic released his hold on him; as the doctor swept up the glass shards from the floor, Soldier had waited patiently for Medic to complete the task. A marvelous improvement already.

When Medic had dumped the shards into the trash, Soldier took the opportunity to speak. “...I’m sorry. For kicking you.”

Huh. Medic had expected changes, but this was unanticipated. “The apology is not needed, but accepted.” He placed the broom back into the Medbay’s cleaning supply closet. “Thank you.”

“What did you mean?" Soldier then asked. "About avoiding you?”

“If you would prefer it, I will assign a teammate to bring you whatever you will need from here, if you do not wish to see me.” Medic clarified.

It was simple, yet petty and unnecessary, but if this made things easier for the team as a whole, then it would have to happen. If Soldier did not want to be here, then he didn’t have to. Medic wouldn’t care otherwise.

“I dunno, seems kinda silly.” Soldier grumbled. “We’re not 14-year-old girls. Men deal with problems head-on. It’s a lot easier that way.” 

Medic would have to agree on that. “So why did you avoid your treatment for over three days, then?”

“After what happened during Engie's little presentation, I swore if I saw you again, I would break your face.” No hesitation whatsoever. Medic wondered if he should take Solider's lack of delay as a warning. "So I did the better thing and kept away.”

Medic nodded. “You were aware of the consequences.” 

“Yes.”

Fair enough. “This will not happen again, Soldier.” 

The doctor stepped away from the bed and moved towards his desk. He slipped his hand underneath it and flicked a switch. The doors' locks hissed as they disengaged, thumping and circling inside the Medbay walls. Soldier didn’t realize the Medbay had locked like that; it was sort of excessive.

The Medbay doors finally slid open after the mechanical symphony had ended. Medic stepped towards the clothing rack and took Soldier’s thick uniform coat and helmet from the hooks. Heavy boots stomped towards him; Medic quickly swivelled around. Soldier stood in front of him, patiently waiting. Medic sighed.

“I cannot release you back onto the field.” He placed the uniform into Soldier’s hands. “You are not quite ready to go back yet.”

No retort, no defensive arguments. Soldier did nothing, except nod and pull his coat over his arms. Quietly. Medic wondered if he had messed up somewhere.

It’s temporary, he reassured himself. This is just the side effects of the medication, and Soldier will return to his normal haughty and prideful self in a few hours.

“Stay within the Bastion. Even if it becomes noisy and loud outside, do not leave.”

Medic had locked the Bastion’s exit anyway, just to be sure Soldier wouldn’t attempt to escape.

🜚

“Dustbowl.”

New Mexico, USA

June 27th, 1968

10:44 PM

_Nothing is definite._ That was the Certain Truth, and it applied to everything; mind and matter, substance and attribute, the natural nature of reality, existence, and everything appertaining thereunto. In the weeks before the end of the war, Medic recalled the writings that Wenzel Richter had forwarded to him, and how he had greatly admired the vivid brilliance of that man’s mind. Medic had worked diligently by Richer’s side, studying to understand it all, the Everything, and how to conquer it, to defy its rules and bend it; shape it with strong ethereal hands and make it their own. Medic may have had Richer’s heart, but he did not have Richer’s stunning brain, thoughts and perceptions. Richter encouraged Medic, however. He pushed him to learn it, to believe it, and accept it so that one day, they will have superiority over it. 

Once you can understand the fragments that allow it to exist, you can tear them apart, unravel it to the smallest fibers, and stitch it all back together again, the way you want it to be.

His superiors weren’t interested in the philosophical aspects of his and Richter’s work; it was the results they wanted. Medic didn’t mind, so long as he had the opportunity to perform the research he desired. The doctor’s medical knowledge was regarded as much more useful than Richter’s studies, however, and often his superiors had pulled Medic away to assist in the Regime’s biological research. Medic preferred to be behind a pile of books rather than standing over a tortured body, but his superiors cared little for what anyone actually wanted.

Mere days before the Regime had fallen apart, he and Richter had reached something, clarity that had been so close... although they weren’t quite sure what exactly it was they had found.

Medic's eyes flew open, and his entire body tensed. Quickly he bolted out of bed and rushed over to his desk, opening drawer after drawer and shuffled through the files, pushing papers and books to the side. Finally he spotted that jet-black book, snatched it out, and shoved the drawers closed. He opened the hardcover, and traced his bare fingers over the title page’s words.

**🜱**

**_Ontology and the Metaphysical: The Aspects of Identity, Being, and Change_ **

**_by_ **

**_Dr. Wenzel Jürgen Richter and Dr. Alois Jakob Ludwig_ **

**🜱**

A feeling had washed over the doctor, something he had not experienced in quite some time. With trembling hands, he slowly flipped through the thick pages, and closely examined Richer’s every elegant word:

_“Nothing is definite. It is the only truth, the Certain Truth. There are questions we can ask ourselves, the average person, that even we cannot fully answer:_

_What is existence, and what does it mean?_

_How do you describe what exists?_

_What is “there”, and what is it like to be “there”?_

_Who or what dictates what is allowed to exist and be “there”?_

_Who or what dictates what is not allowed to exist?”_

When the Regime had surrendered and the Soviets screamed victory, Medic had to part ways with Richter; as a last goodbye, Richter had left much of his resources with Medic, and a request to “persist onward.” It had been difficult, however, to continue research while being chased down by those red star-bearing idiot Soviets. He had to wait.

Here, Medic thought, he could remain undisturbed for hours. That could be ideal, if nothing interfered with his schedule. For a few moments, Medic silently thanked Ms. Pauling for snatching him that day. There were various opportunities for the worst to happen, and yet something so unexpected had fallen upon him instead. It was almost like…

Like it had been predetermined. The doctor furrowed his brows. Almost like it had been _planned._

_“I know who you are, Dr. Alois Jakob Ludwig.”_

Medic almost punched himself for not noticing this sooner. _How_ could she know anything? None of the Regime’s research, not of his field, ever left the empire. Unless she had lied, and she really was a spy for her country, and her predecessors had somehow discovered what they were looking into.

A sudden, low laugh escaped his lips that Medic couldn’t control. If that woman’s employers were interested in his research, they would have to do much better than this. Trap him here with eight insane men so he’d further lose his mind- and what, just give them everything he knows so they’d shoot him out of mercy? What would they even be planning to do with it? How would existential philosophy benefit warring enterprises?

...Unless, of course, they had the very same ideas about this world that he and Richter did.

_Nothing is definite._

Medic reminded himself to open up some academic texts concerning metaphysics again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does it mean to exist?
> 
> \---
> 
> "Sky Pilot" by Eric Burdon and the Animals (1968) is a very powerful song that helped set the mood for Soldier's section of this chapter. It was written during the Vietnam War, but applies to war in general.
> 
> Here's a link, if you're interested in listening. (This particular video actually includes an introduction to the song, lyrics on-screen, and some footage): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZklnDvd_vfQ
> 
> As for Medic's section, I just listened to Hilf Mir by Rammstein, haha. I think Medic would end up being an industrial metalhead in his young adult years if he had grown up in 1980's East Germany. 
> 
> I'm kidding (but I really did.) 
> 
> Medic is a classical music connoisseur. His record library is packed with compilations of the very best tracks by the classical masters. He'd play records on low volume and hum the melodies as he worked. (I think Vivaldi's Four Seasons would be some of his favorite pieces to use as background music): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRxofEmo3HA
> 
> (Winter is the best piece of the four, but that's just my opinion)
> 
> Also, 
> 
> The "jet-black book" Medic reads, "Ontology and the Metaphysical" isn't real. Unfortunately. But there are plenty of real-life counterparts that discuss this very topic you could read.
> 
> "Ontology and the Metaphysical" is written in German, of course, not English. It wasn't a publically published book, so it is inaccessible to the average German citizen, or anyone else in the world. The text was kept hidden, and was only viewable by leadership within the Regime. And the two who wrote it.
> 
> This particular book has a big story wrapped around it, it's like the Necronomicon of the science world.


	22. Fanart by Lucy-Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amazing fanart by the wonderful Lucy-Paint. Please check out her page:
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/lucy-paint
> 
> I love the colors! 🖤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let everyone know: I've been very, very busy as of the past few weeks. But as I've stated before, I have no intention of abandoning ATKM.
> 
> I have enjoyed this project and will continue to work on it as much as I can. Huge thanks to everyone who has followed along so far! I'm so glad that you're enjoying the story! <3 
> 
> :)


	23. The Thirteenth Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Apologies for the wait, I have been very, very busy. I was hoping to get this posted when we had 1968 hits because I wanted to make a joke. Nevertheless, here we are.
> 
> Warnings are nothing new, except maybe for heavily implied drug abuse (I'm not sure if I've already mentioned that before.)
> 
> There are references back to Ch. 11, "Meet The Sniper."

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 28th, 1968

4:01 AM

On the rare nights that Sniper decided to fall asleep early, he’d awaken long before the sun peaked above the clouds. On usual nights where he didn’t, the sun still failed to show before his head left the pillow, and when he sat atop his van to watch its light brighten the dark skies to vibrant pink, the sun always took its time.

Sniper never got much sleep. 

In his younger days, he did a lot of faded roaming. He didn’t care where he would go, if his legs functioned well enough to take him there, he went. A lot of things- thoughts and memories, they disappeared in the haze he had wallowed in. Poor decisions, those horrible mistakes he wished he could forget, drifted off somewhere faintly in the back of his mind; perhaps that was a good thing, Sniper sighed at the thought. Often he awoke in places he barely recognized, around sluggish people with blurry names, and a belt tightly wrapped around his limp arm. He could never count how many spoons and needles he’d find scattered around those shadowed rooms. He never wanted to. It was a temporary thing, it wouldn't last, and he shouldn’t care. He wanted to believe that. 

Sniper believed it years after, too, when skinny strangers continued to greet him on the street, with slurred words and tangy breath; strangers that he never knew and would never see again, yet he felt short-lived comfort in their presence. It’s an awful feeling, finding solace in the company of people just as deplorable and fucked up as himself. Yet in the absence of work, he’d wander off to find them again, to smile back at those slack figures and their slurred dope-induced compliments. 

They weren’t his friends. His real friends had come and gone. These people, their faces had no connection to him, and even if he had known them once, he’d long forgotten what they meant. It was temporary, anyway. All of it was temporary- temporary peace, temporary comfort, and temporary “friends.”

He missed Evie.

Maybe she was still around, Sniper thought to himself, as a gray-feathered owl flew overhead and landed on the long outstretched branch of a fluffy cottonwood tree several paces away. Sniper studied the owl, watching it curl up inside a large hole carved into the tree. His attempts to avert his thoughts failed horribly, and it dawned upon him that Evie was off living happily somewhere. More likely than not, she had a husband and some little kids to take care of. Hell, she’s probably built a whole damn family and he wouldn’t know shit about it, because she was perfectly fine being very far away from him.

There are bones that need to stay buried deep, yet once again they’ve been shoved in front of his face. Every moment that Sniper allowed these thoughts to wander on, they always seemed grave rob his past. Maybe there was a reason, often he thought, and maybe he needed to do something about it. 

One day those belts had felt a little too tight, and his arms were lighter than usual. Sniper prayed, silently, that he would slip up this time; no more cold floors, no more shadowed rooms, no more boiling spoons, no more scattered needles, just a forgiving void when his eyes met darkness.

But whatever force that existed decided it wasn’t his time to leave this world. He awoke to hot air, cold floors, and concrete walls again. Reluctantly Sniper had pushed himself up to his knees, and crawled away, dragging onward with that same shameful feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Fortunately, that dirty path had brought Sniper to Ms. Pauling. She was a kind and benevolent woman, someone that seemed to understand things that the average person did not. The kindness that Ms. Pauling had treated him with the day they met was something he felt from no one else after leaving Sunbury. When he arrived in Spokane, he’d since been off of the needle, but after all those years of constant abuse and wallowing in pathetic self-pity, he still felt like a fucking junkhead. The horrible appearance he bared turned heads away from him; his thin scraggly body, dark baggy eyes, and angular groggy face made his situation rather clear for others, yet Ms. Pauling didn’t treat him like a typical street junkie. Her kindness felt off to him, and Sniper wondered if she knew more about him than she let on, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much about it. A person with her demeanor could hardly be malicious. Sniper decided that her generosity felt wrong because it’s actually _real._ It wasn’t that fake sympathy that those head doctors pretend to have for you; it was genuine, and for that, Sniper actually _trusted_ her.

What he had now… it was a better situation than what he lived in before. Sniper admitted that much to himself. He didn’t have to spend days tracking anyone down and then decide how to quietly get rid of them. Here, he just needed to find a safe spot and move quickly after taking the shot. Sniper didn’t mind the tedious waiting, though. He didn’t mind being alone, either; in fact, if he had been aware of just how annoying his “teammates” were going to be, he would have declined Ms. Pauling's offer. Maybe. 

Some of them weren’t that bad. At the very least. 

Sniper tilted his head upwards. The owl had nestled into its nest within the cottonwood tree, fast asleep. Finally the sun peeked out from behind the mountains, and the dark sky lightened into various shades of purple. Sniper stood up, stretching his arms over his head, and exhaled softly before snapping the fold-up chair closed, then climbed down from the roof of his van. He hated that it always happened like this. Just one night of peace, that’s all he wanted. 

No more digging up buried bones.

🜚

Jeremy never understood how the administration decided that putting the students’ lockers on the south wing was a good idea, since the _most important_ classes were on the _other fuckin’ side_ of the _goddamn building!_ It’s almost as if those assholes wanted you to be late for class, but Jeremy wasn’t one of Boston’s track stars for nothing. Once he grabbed his needed books and kicked the locker door closed (the lock broke a _long_ time ago), Jeremy jumped to a sprint and flew down the hall to his next class: Biology. 

But Jeremy had been a little too focused on his destination, and not the environment around him. He didn’t notice Clark Jackson ahead of him, or the leg that the larger boy stuck out in his path- not until he was on the ground with a puffy, swollen nose and bleeding cuts on his lips. _Shit._

“Ouch, maybe you should watch where you’re goin’ Jer’my.” Clark taunted above him. When looking up at the boy, he appeared sort of intimidating with his large arms crossed against his chest like that, but Jeremy was never one to get scared easily. 

Jeremy pushed himself up from the dirty white floor, hissing a quick retort, “Shhhhuddup, dickhead. Your first name is a last name.”

“What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?” Clark sneered and laughed, “Normally you have better comebacks than that!”

“It means fuck off an’ leave me alone! I’ve got places to be!”

Gripping his lower face, Jeremy spared no moment for Clark to spit out another word. He crawled back to his feet and continued his pace down the north wing.

Jeremy could still hear him though, despite being so far away. He listened to Clark’s endless stream of taunts, joined by his buddy Craig Donovan’s violent threats; it wouldn’t end. The hall seemed longer than usual, the former bustling hoards of students disbanded and grew weaker. Jeremy slowed. He glanced over his shoulder. Empty. 

White walls, white floors, no bulletin boards or academic posters. White hall. Empty.

Jeremy was alone.

A sudden coldness flashed against his neck. He reached with both of his hands to grab at it. A thin chain, he felt, and looked down. He recognized the shape, the thin solid metal, and bold text stamped into it. Dog tags. Tommy and Henry’s dog tags.

_“Ya’ve got stuff left to do out there, Jerry! Don’ worry about where we’re going. We’ll be alright.”_

He never liked staying in one place, and holding still while his brothers got into the truck, leaving for war, leaving _him_ and _ma,_ it was the hardest thing Jeremy ever had to do. They won’t be alright, they won’t be fine, but if lying made it hurt less, he’d take it.

_“Little boys play soldiers as a game.”_ Henry said once before, _“They wave aroun’ toy guns and draw enemy lines between their friends. It’s harmless child’s play, but they’ll never understand jus’ how serious it is until they’re in it.”_

The awful stench of gun smoke struck Jeremy’s nose. Dust flew towards him, flooding his vision. Jeremy brought his arms to his face, shielding from the blowing sand. The hard tile under his feet seemed to disappear, replaced by something soft and bumpy. A burning sun shined high above him. Everything felt so scorching hot.

Great. _Dustbowl._ What a stupid name.

Jeremy never really considered what Henry had said back then. When the time came to defend the fortress, he realized just how true that statement was. Jeremy wasn’t a soldier. Knowing how to handle a gun doesn’t make you a soldier. Soldiers are dignified and honorable; they have a purpose, a noble one. Jeremy took up the offer because he didn’t want to go to prison for murder in the first degree- and he’s getting _paid_ for this, to kill people in cold blood. There’s no noble cause in that, there’s no honor in selling yourself out because you don’t want to face the consequences of your own stupidity. How fucking _pathetic._

_“Ya’ve got stuff left to do out there, Jerry!”_

In a blind rage, Jeremy ruined his entire life. He didn’t have to kill Craig Donovan, but he _wanted_ to. There was no ounce of hesitation the moment he swung towards him, and not a single second thought passed through his mind when he continued to slam that boy’s brains into the pavement. Jeremy felt that night’s cold trace over his sweat-covered face. The weight of his metal bat slacked his arms slightly, and he remembered just how it felt whacking the bat against firmly smashed meat. _Gross,_ but nothing Jeremy couldn’t (or wouldn’t) do over and over again; he fared well in the first fight for the fortress, anyway.

Did that mean he was a horribly depraved person, just like those sick-headed freaks he’d always see on the news or in the papers? Why didn’t he feel terrible about taking someone’s life, as he knows he should?

If Tommy and Henry had come back from Vietnam, what would they think of him then?

Jeremy wears his brothers’ names like charms, yet lives a life they would never approve of. There was a time when he showed promise. He had a perfect future ahead. His brothers were so proud of him. Ma was so proud of him.

What could he do to have that again?

_“Pieni jänis. Hyvästi.”_

🜚

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 28th, 1968

8:42 AM

Waking up with a headache sucks, and Scout has done just that. The pain thumped behind his eyes and into his nose, fluctuating and pulsing and it _hurt._ His room’s white walls and ceiling seemed so cold and uninviting, but so did the bed at this point. With an annoyed groan, Scout kicked the heavy blankets aside and crawled to sit at the bed’s edge. His eyes and face continued to throb, but rubbing didn’t seem to help much. He would have to visit Medic sometime today, but Scout didn’t want to leave his room yet. Groggily he moved to his feet and stepped over to the (ugly) burgundy dresser, lifting the lid of his spotless record player. Maybe some music would lighten his mood.

Records were stacked neatly on a small shelf next to the dresser. Scout skimmed through, and gently picked up the covered record he wanted, _“The Sons of Adam.”_ Ma was never a fan of the band, but Scout thought they were pretty cool. He pulled the black disc from the casing, placed it onto the turntable platter, and moved the tonearm onto his favorite track: _“Saturday’s Son.”_ Aw yeah.

_“Thirteenth child of a thirteenth child_

_Born in the back streets and growing up wild_

_Thirteenth son of a thirteenth son_

_What was my sin_

_Oh what have I done”_

Scout adjusted the volume to a lower level for the sake of his headache. He reached for the handles of the dresser’s upper drawer, but movement behind him suddenly caught his eye. Turning, Scout met his reflection in that long body mirror he’d been meaning to get rid of. His skinny, scarred up, tan line riddled reflection. Scout studied himself for a moment. Just below the seam of his underwear, a scar he did not recognize had appeared on his upper thigh at some point. He’d never noticed before, but it wasn’t often that he stared at himself half-naked in a mirror, either. Huh.

Leaning down, Scout lowered his kneesocks, and frowned. Maybe, he thought, other miraculous things had happened in his sleep, but no. He still had tan lines. _Perma-socks._

He _hated_ tan lines. Gross. 

_“Why am I cursed to walk alone_

_Where is the love that I've never known_

_No hand is open there is no one_

_For the thirteenth child, Saturday's son”_

Scout decided that he didn't want to look at himself much longer; the room was getting a little chilly, anyway. 

Ms. Pauling didn’t mention any rules stating that the mercenaries had to wear their uniforms at _all_ times (only out in the field) and Scout was going to take full advantage of that. Throwing on a black and white striped tee shirt and gray shorts, he paused the track and moved towards the door, but before grabbing the doorknob, Scout quickly ran his fingers through his hair. He’ll look at least _slightly_ decent today. 

Turning the knob, Scout caught a sudden whiff of… bacon?

🜚

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 28th, 1968

9:01 AM

Engineer was more than just an early bird. As horrific as it may sound, he was a _morning person._ Early mornings and early evenings were his favorite times of the day; they were pretty all year round, like natural stress relievers. Engineer found himself at ease when watching the sun rise and fall. It may not be the same for everyone else, but it was certainly true for him.

Today during the sunrise, Engineer had decided to do something extra special for his teammates. With a mountain of work ahead of them, the boys needed some encouragement. Ambition is spurned from strong will and the desire to _go._ What better way to inspire a man, than giving him a comfortable morning? Something homely to wake up to?

Turns out, the cellar had exactly what Engineer needed to make his idea work out, and the majority of his morning thus far was spent making it happen. Plates decorated the commons table, full of eggs (scrambled and sunny), fried sausage, bacon, and potato slices drizzled with red-eye gravy and topped with a cat-head biscuit. No breakfast is complete without a side of grits of course, so Engineer was sure to tuck some in onto each plate. Hopefully the boys appreciated the gesture.

Engineer hoped they appreciated this, period.

They all came from different walks of life, different values. It wasn’t hard to tell some of them struggled, (or are struggling.) Engineer hoped this would be a pleasant experience for them. There’s a saddening feeling wrapped around the idea of a person never having something nice like this. Engineer’s family hasn’t always been fortunate, after all. He knew all about that. 

Engineer adjusted the table cloth before placing the final plate down. Perhaps his own experience is the reason why he cared so much about it.

“Still playing mother goose, _Ingenieur?_ ”

Leaning against the doorway exit towards the Medbay hall, a familiar stoic doctor stood with a small smirk. Engineer happily ignored the attempt at snide banter. Instead, he gestured towards the table.

“Jus’ tryna do right by our team.” Engineer replied. “Care to take a seat, doc?”

Medic stepped away from the exit, but not much closer. “I considered it. What brought this about?” He asked. Engineer moved back towards the stove with a dishrag in his hand and wiped off the counters.

“Figured y’all needed somethin’ nice to lighten yer spirits, s’all.” After the stove burners had cooled down, he dragged the dishrag between the iron rings. “Spent the mornin’ makin’ it perfect.”

“Well, I certainly hope you are not learning from Soldier.” Medic studied the shorter man’s face. “I expected you to be more compliant.”

Sighing, Engineer rinsed out the rag and hung it on a small hook above the sink, then turned around to face the doctor, crossing his arms. “I ain’t skippin’ out on yer _“hypnotics,”_ doc. You’d know if I was.”

Medic grinned. “Of course I would. I would also know if you were not, and I would not have to speak a word of it, if I believed you.”

“...What?” Engineer furrowed his brows. He couldn’t connect a single statement that came from the doctor, the man was practically speaking in riddles. “The hell are you talking about? I have proof, if ya need it that badly-!”

Light footsteps thumped down the commons’ stairs. Medic raised a shushing finger towards Engineer. The Texan scowled, but remained quiet.

“We will continue this conversation later, _liebste._ ” Medic whispered with a smile. “You have another guest.”

Within a few moments, Scout’s thin figure came into view. The boy quickly stopped in place, eyes widened upon seeing the wide array of food available on the table; Scout didn’t even realize how big the commons table was until this moment. His attention fixed onto Engineer, and Medic- the doctor hadn’t broken the distance between Engineer and himself yet.

Scout didn’t seem to notice, instead pointing towards the table. “Okay so what da hell is goin’ on in here?”

Engineer stepped away from the doctor, plastering on a kind smile for Scout, and replied, “Mornin’, son! Didn’ expect ya to be up this early. Picked ya out as one who liked t’ sleep in.”

“Damn stupid headache woke me up.” Scout groaned, and pulled out the nearest chair to sit. “Didn’ plan on it at _all._ ”

“Well jus’ settle yerself in, an’ take as much as ya like.” Engineer heartily laughed and patted Scout’s shoulder. To his surprise, Scout didn’t object; instead, the boy smiled and took one huge bite out of the biscuit. Scout’s happiness seemed to take another huge leap forward. 

With a mouth full, he turned back to Engineer. “Damm Engih, whah dih yah mhk thih wih-”

“Swallow yer food before ya speak, son!”

Medic didn’t observe the conversation closely. Something else caught his attention. “Do you always walk around in your socks, _junge?_ That is not good for your feet.” 

In response, Scout- having now swallowed his food- kicked his legs forward. “Yeah well I don’ wanna give the toe goblins free meals.”

“Toe goblins!?” A heavy Scottish accent bellowed from the upper floor. “What tha hell is that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Scout replied, and practically inhaled more than a spoonful of eggs. “Engie, I don’ wanna say this, but I think ya cook better than my Ma.”

Engineer chuckled. “Nothin’s better than yer own mama’s cookin’. I ain’t as good as my mama, that’s for sure.”

Demoman hopped down the last five steps of the commons’ staircase, and raced towards the table. The ruckus seemed to have awoken the remaining men, as they emerged and descended down the stairs shortly behind the Scotsman. 

“I may not be a toe goblin,” Said Demoman cheerfully, “But I’m about ta have me a meal! Engie! Bless ya, lad.” 

As his teammates (even Engineer) took their seats, Medic felt a bit of peer pressure set in, and eventually moved to join them at the table. Bright smiles and light conversation exchanged between the mercenaries, though Medic was not as engaged. The doctor’s attention remained focused on the dish in front of him. Engineer’s choice for breakfast food was rather interesting. While a hearty breakfast is the norm in Germany, he’s never had one quite this… large. Something of this degree would often be saved for supper.

A light, gloved hand brushed the doctor’s shoulder. Medic nearly jumped out of his skin. Fear soon turned to anger and annoyance, however; only _one_ man could have snuck up on him like that.

“I once believed the German had too much in the morning.” Spy whispered to him. “It was quite the shock when I first arrived in America. Every meal is rather bountiful here.”

“And the French never eat enough.” Medic quietly retorted. “It truly is a wonder that you manage to hold your pathetic body mass, with how weak and brittle your bones must be.”

Spy’s grip tightened. “I refuse to satiate your need for an argument.”

“Then _leave._ This is hardly how I want to start the day.”

“Likewise.”

Turning, Medic intended to glare at the Frenchman while he departed, only to realize that Spy had been _transparent_ during their little wordfight. The doctor scoffed. Of course, because why wouldn’t Spy want him to look like a fool? Medic stared down at the plate with a deep scowl. His appetite seemed to have disappeared with the Frenchman. _Fantastisch._

“Spy was bothering you?”

Medic’s glare instead fell upon the Russian sitting adjacent to him, but Heavy didn’t flinch at Medic’s obvious attempt to make the larger man turn away. The Russian carried this awkward sympathetic aura around, something Medic couldn’t stand much of, and the doctor didn’t want to be subjected to its discomforting effects.

“As he does.” Medic replied. “It is nothing new.”

“Then do not let it get you.” Heavy calmly spoke, “Spy is stubborn, must have last word. He will only bother if you allow him to.”

Medic could pick out several others at the table who would also fit that description. “I know how to handle his type.”

Heavy nodded. “Good. Then handle it better. You have not done well if it happens still.”

It built over him again, the terrible power that Heavy always pushed over him during conversations like these; a force that took away his ability to speak and turn away. Whatever quip Medic had lined up for this moment disappeared; Heavy smiled happily back at him as if he was unaware of what he’d done.

Medic held a disdain for people like this. The man could hardly speak English, yet somehow every broken sentence and misused word had a strong sincerity standing behind it. Medic _hated_ people like this, because all he could do now was sit in silence, and _think_ about it. _Scheiße._

_..._

_“Should I be_ **_ashamed_ ** _of myself?”_

_“Da, yes, you should be.”_

_..._

_“Ya need to show ‘em that you actually care about ‘em, an’ maybe they’ll be grateful that yer even here.”_

As if they ever would.

🜚

“Spy, can ya kindly go and fetch Sniper?” Engineer spoke from the commons’ kitchen, “I expected ‘em to show up at some point, but that didn’ happen, clearly. I’d hate for ‘em to think we forgot about ‘em.”

The Frenchman stood on the other side of the counter, smoking next to the nearest open window, and curled inward at the request, appearing offended that such a thing was asked of him. “I will pretend that you did not direct me to “fetch” the Bushman for you.”

Engineer frowned, but not out of anger. The expression was more sullen, downturned. Spy almost felt bad for speaking. 

“I’d go get ‘em myself, but I had the itchy feelin’ he’d just ignore me,” he replied, “Yer pretty good at gettin’ folks to listen to ya.”

Spy smashed his cigarette into the counter’s ashtray. “Fine, but do not expect me to be your personal messenger.”

“Didn’ plan on it, but I’ll keep that in mind.” Engineer smiled. “I jus’ don’ want ‘em to be left out. I feel like he thinks he’s obligated to be alone, y’know? Jus’ ain’t right.”

For a moment, Spy considered a sour response. The Sniper wasn’t on his personal list of people that he tolerated, however it appeared that Engineer had everyone on his list- if he had one. As blunt as Spy could be, the Frenchman decided to hold his tongue this time. He had a smooth acquaintanceship with Engineer so far; it would be a shame to ruin it.

🜚

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 28th, 1968

10:05 AM

He’d searched, at the very least, five towers thus far, not including Sniper’s disgusting camper van. His exhausting hunt for the enemy Spy continued to reflect back into his thoughts, and Spy decided that he would die by this statement: the number of hiding places within this garrison was _ridiculous._ Giving up felt really, really tempting.

His right ear-piece crackled to life, a faint sound picking up onto its radar; all of Spy’s built-up frustration quickly dissipated into unexpected concern. This clicking wave was unlike anything he had tracked before. It did not resemble any normal electromagnetic wave that he knew of. How odd. Everything in existence, save for limited exceptions, emitted energy from itself, however this one was most unusual. Spy focused his ear-piece onto the wave, and followed the short clicks.

The trail led him a great distance across the garrison, nearing the southern-most wall. Spy worried that it would reach outside of the town’s barriers; that would give him very limited options. Chasing the trail had significant negative consequences, and the last thing Spy needed was another reason for the Administrator to “dispose” of him, or at the very least: …"remind" him of his "incompetence."

Another nearby wave abruptly interrupted the clicking frequency. The chopped feedback had overwhelmed Spy's ear-piece, looping into an echo at incredibly splitting volumes; a sharp ring, high in pitch, followed the spreading pain within the right side of his skull. Spy pulled up his mask and eye-glass, snatching them over his head, and tore the small device from his right ear canal. Somewhere behind him it had fallen, discarded. Thin sanguine streaks smeared across his palm. The ringing persisted.

Movement to his left, inside a Sniper Nest, a silhouette seemed to stare back at him; Spy would be relieved were he not in indescribable pain. He picked his mask and ear-piece from the dusty ground. The silhouette remained still, and Spy had to wonder why it couldn’t have been this easy earlier.

The ringing persisted.

🜚

Finally at the top of the tower’s ladder, Spy crawled into the nest, and found the Sniper slouched in his chair, staring across the desert with empty hands. His rifle remained propped against the wall. Spy found this slightly unusual. Sniper himself appeared awful, more than usual. To Spy, Sniper has always been a languid and completely useless man; after all, what is a guard who could barely stay awake, and not even bare his weapon? Now though, as he observed the Bushman, Spy felt some form of concern. Sniper hadn’t noticed or acknowledged him yet. He stared off with dead eyes out into the desert, slacked. 

The ringing persisted. Spy ignored it.

“ _Ingénieur_ wishes to see you.” Spy addressed, “He has cooked for everyone, and would appreciate it if you joined.”

Sniper failed still, and remained unmoving. He wasn’t dead, Spy was sure. In his experience, he knows what _dead_ looked like, and as slightly discomforting as it was to say, Sniper wasn’t far off from that.

“...’m not hungry.” A hushed, mumbled reply finally came from the man. Spy wasn’t impressed. 

“Yes, well, it would mean a lot to-”

“I don’ give a goddamn what Truckie wants, fuck off before I gut ya.”

The lack of energy, or noticeable anger, in Sniper’s retort rendered the threat much more dangerous than what Spy was comfortable with. Now would be an ideal time to leave, but leaving Sniper in such a horribly apathetic position no longer appealed to Spy’s humorous side. The man was clearly lethargic.

The ringing persisted. 

“Can’t ya hear?” Sniper groaned out, “I said _fuck off._ ”

“Only partially.” Spy replied, cringing at the pains in his skull. “Unfortunately I will not be able to leave at this time.”

Sniper grunted. “Noticed ya bleedin’. How’d that happen?”

“That-” He paused; Sniper hadn’t passed a single glance at him yet. “How did you know that? You have done nothing but sit in that chair!”

“Ya bloody kiddin’ me, right?” A short laugh came with Sniper’s sour reply. “I’m a fuckin’ tracker. I can smell blood. Gotta know where the kill is, gotta hunt it down. It’s pretty damn simple.”

Yet another statement Spy had decided to die by: Sniper is a psychopath. Smell blood? Like an animal? Absolutely horrific, a creature of demonic myth. _Yan-gant-y-tan._

The ringing persisted. Spy clutched at his face.

“What?” Sniper sneered. “Did that scare ya? I can tell ya somethin’ far worse.”

No, Spy didn’t want to hear anything else. This was a mistake. The ringing persisted; Spy backed away towards the ladder. Hopefully, he’s having an aneurysm. _S'il vous plaît._

“There’s somethin’ wrong here.” Sniper continued with a smirk, “I think you’ve noticed.”

“With you?” Spy hissed, “Unsurprising!”

Sniper finally turned to face Spy directly. The Frenchman safely concluded that Sniper did, in fact, look absolutely lethargic. 

“That’s a whole different story I know ya could care _less_ about.” Sniper contemptuously replied. He leaned to his right, grabbing something from the large duffle bag next to his chair. “We’re in this shit deep, ya know. Some of our “enemies” are just as observant.”

In his hands, Sniper held a thick tan-colored folder and passed it towards Spy. Inside were countless documents, photographs, notes clipped to different pages, and most unsettling, various names that Spy either recognized, or had a strong feeling he knew. The writing wasn’t English, save for the occasional English title or name; it was Hungarian. _Isák Csorba._

Spy’s grip on the folder trembled. The desert didn’t feel that hot anymore.

“When did you speak to Isák?” Spy pressed. 

Sniper shrugged. “Earlier today. I was gonna kill ‘em the second he popped into my line of sight, but he gave me a pretty good reason not to. Quickly.”

“And that was?”

“He knows shit. About _everyone._ ” Sniper gestured towards the folder. “S’all in that. ‘Course I burned my section after he finally disappeared. Decided to save the rest of it for ya, since this is sorta your thing. I didn’ read any of the personal stuff, if that’s what you’re worried about. Can't read the language. I'm sure you can, though.”

Spy would have been comforted by that idea, if it was his main concern. If Isák had spoken to Sniper, and approached him with this mountain of extremely sensitive and classified information, that meant a few things; none of which were good for Spy.

Even now, Isák Csorba is trying to ruin him.

With languid motions, Spy closed the folder, clipped it tightly together, and rested his arms at his side. Sniper’s attention remained fixated on him. Apparently the Bushman expected a response.

“I cannot guarantee that everything you read was true.” Spy quietly replied. “Isák sees the world somewhat differently.”

Sniper groaned. “Look I don’ care about the bloody drama between the two ‘a ya. I don’ even care why you’re here. I jus’ wanna ask ya one thing: Who’s callin’ the shots up there?”

That, Spy wasn’t supposed to answer. None of the mercenaries- RED or BLU- were supposed to dig up anything on anyone, nor tell each other personal or private information, yet here Spy held the proof that these rules were being gracefully ignored. He couldn’t figure him out; Isák’s motives were unpredictable at this point. What was the purpose of this? A warning? 

The hows-and-whys were irrelevant. Isák has made it clear that he will not cooperate. He knew Spy well, once. Well enough, in fact, that Isák would be completely aware of what was going to happen after this folder made it into Spy's hands.

If one player breaks the rules, the entire game is forfeit, and Spy found little reason to win for _her_ side this time. _Merde tout._

“...Her name is Helen Caldwell.”

The ringing stopped.

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse.
> 
> \---
> 
> There are a few sections that I cut from this chapter, related to the first and third portions. I wasn't sure if I wanted to use them just yet. We'll see. ("Meet: The BLU Team" is coming up soon, but I don't think I'll make it the very next chapter.)
> 
> The song Scout listened to after he woke up: "Saturday's Son" by The Sons of Adam (1966) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHbam4VO7MA
> 
> Yan-gant-y-tan is a creature in Breton (as in, the Brittany region within France) mythology. It is a demon of ill omens, and to come across one is a bad sign. (in contrasting myths, however, it is also a light-bearer or way-bearer; a sort of passage guide.)
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has come along so far! I appreciate it a lot, you are all appreciated, and I apologize for everything that happens after this.
> 
> (I'm joking. Maybe.)


	24. Nincsenek Istenek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. This is a portion of a longer chapter, but I decided to separate them because I'm not entirely satisfied with the second half yet, and I didn't want to keep everyone waiting. (Also, there's a very important part that I want /just/ right.)
> 
> As of January 21st, it has been one year since I began posting ATKM on here, and I intend on finishing the story this year. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, commented, and simply taken the time to read. It is appreciated. <3
> 
> (New artwork on Chapter 8, "Meet the Heavy")

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 28th, 1968

10:30 AM

Someone so short in stature, angrily marching down the hall with a fuming scowl on his face, was quite a humorous sight to Medic. Engineer typically wasn’t an easily angered person, from what he had observed. Today just didn’t seem to go well for Engineer, however.

Spy had failed to return to the commons with Sniper. Engineer was, of course, been downstruck by that. In the empty kitchen, Medic had taken the opportunity to quietly bring up their earlier conversation, adding to Engineer’s ire. The trek from the commons to the Medbay was a long, boring one; the Texan’s reddened face and huffy demeanor made the walk all the more entertaining for Medic.

The Medbay’s mechanical doors closed with a roaring slam, and it’s locks chirred, clicking back into place. Engineer whirled around, preparing a confrontation as Medic disappeared into a smaller, much darker room off from the Medbay itself. 

“Apologies, Engineer.” Said the doctor. A dim light, perhaps from a lamp, flicked on in that small room. “I needed to speak with you away from the attention of others. Privacy-”

“Well now we _are_ in private!” Engineer spat. “So what’s all this about? You should _know_ me by now, Doc. I ain’t-!”

Medic quickly stepped back into the Medbay, gripping a large stack of papers within his hands. “Oh, that. I lied.”

“...Lied.”

“ _Ja, Genau._ ”

“...Dare I ask why?”

“Simple,” Medic grinned, slamming the papers down onto his desk. “I needed an excuse to get you to follow me.”

The Texan frowned. “Jus’ askin’ me to come would’ve worked too. Y’ made me think-”

A shushing finger raised towards Engineer’s face. “Something is wrong, _Ingenieur._ ” Medic hushed, “You are the only one intelligent enough to understand what I am about to say. Well, aside from that wretched _Franzose,_ but I do not like him enough to discuss this.”

“...Alright,” Engineer sighed, and shook his head, “I’m listenin’.”

  
  


🜚

“Dustbowl”

New Mexico, USA

June 28th, 1968

10:30 AM

Dustbowl’s garrison town had been constructed with a complex layout in mind. There were countless corners, blindspots, and tight spaces scattered across the map that were perfect for anyone to hide away in. Spy had found cover, away from any security and surveillance devices, crouched down inside a round, shoulder-deep hole that he was certain the previous residents of this garrison had constructed for _some_ sort of tactical purpose. For now though, the hastily dug hole provided Spy with needed concealment. With little hesitation, he opened up the heavy folder once again.

Every invasive line opened a door into each man’s life. Somehow, Isák had seemed to find _everything._ Names, birth dates, hometowns, even the tiniest, personal details that any normal agent wouldn’t care to know; yet, it was all here, and Spy was more baffled by the second.

_“There’s somethin’ wrong here. I think you’ve noticed.”_

Sniper held his usual dead-eyed composure during Spy’s earlier encounter with him, but something had seemed very, very off-putting about him then. Perhaps Isák did not disclose his position here, Spy thought. Perhaps he had enough respect for Spy’s profession to keep that information quiet. 

_“I don’ even care why you’re here. I jus’ wanna ask ya one thing: Who’s callin’ the shots up there?”_

Or perhaps he didn’t. None of that mattered now, anyway.

_“Her name is Helen Caldwell.”_

_“You know her well?”_

_“Only professionally. I’ve worked for her before. We are not fans of each other.”_

_“Then ya wouldn’ mind tearin’ this game ‘a hers apart?”_

_“I have wanted to for a very long time.”_

If Isák had only spoken the truth, it was the truth that he should _not_ know of. In the years that Spy had been an active agent for Ms. Helen Caldwell, he had not once heard the name Isák Csorba uttered by any of her personnel. He had not heard this man’s name in over a _decade._

Within this folder, Isák Csorba possesses sensitive information exclusive to and accessible by TF. agents only. As far as Spy himself knew, he was _not_ one; and that only left a few possible explanations. Either Isák holds immeasurable skill in espionage, or someone had _given_ him the illusion of higher ground to stand on. If he had mastered this art to such an incredible extent, Isák would not lower himself to grunt work; the man was simply too proud... and that left the latter.

It was not too far-fetched, Spy realized then. If Isák believed a small nudge somehow made him superior to Spy, he's truly a fool; more so than he already was.

Here, no one held the “upper hand.” Together they are little more than pawns in a war built by kings.

Spy had switched his earpiece to his left, uninjured ear and switched it on. It buzzed to life, humming quietly; no interference. _Crackle._ Spy tapped into the transceiver attached.

_Redirecting...02254...Felicia Pauling…_

_Buzz._ The line connected. Spy took another glance down at the papers; a word had caught his eye. A name. _His_ own name. Spy’s hands tensed, tightening around the pages, breath stalled.

_Crackle._ “...Janvier?”

“Gradivus.” Spy replied. _Code: Hide this frequency._

A click. “The line is shielded. What happened?”

“There is… a situation.” Spy’s gaze did not leave the page. “I need to see you in person.”

“I’m scheduled to visit Dustbowl in six weeks-”

“It is _urgent,_ Ms. Pauling!” He snapped. “I believe Helen is trying to have me- _all_ of us- killed! There is- there is something- _Merde-!_ ”

The line fell quiet, left to crackling static. On her end, Ms. Pauling sighed, and replied, “Janvier, _please_ listen. I won't be available until I leave Virginia. Six weeks-”

“Miss-!’

“ _Listen!_ You know more about her than I do. If you think she’s got something worse up her sleeve, then I _believe_ you, okay? But I cannot leave right now. You’ll have to contact me indirectly until I’m done here.” _Crackle._ “Now what did you find?”

“The BLU Spy has somehow acquired information on every single man and woman employed under Helen Caldwell. Not TF. Industries or any branches, _just_ her, including me and you.” Spy explained, and flipped to a different page. “Fortunately, I now possess the files. However, I am more than concerned about _how_ he managed to have said information.”

“...You’re our only agent out there, Janvier.” Ms. Pauling hummed. “Unless someone lent him information, I can’t see how he would… What exactly _did_ he have?”

Spy flipped back, his hand gripping onto the page where he had spotted his name. The photos attached were not of himself, but he recognized the face; one he had not seen in such a long time. _“Tout! Il sait tout!”_ Sudden anger had slipped into his voice, “He knows everything! Those involved in this are manipulating the rules so that we will all be _executed!_ ”

“No you won’t! I can-”

“ _You_ have not been in this as long as _I have,_ Ms. Pauling! I have seen this very situation, over and over. If you become a liability, you are useless and you will be disposed of. Isák is the catalyst, making connections between each man and putting us all at risk! And for what end?”

_Crackle. Buzz._

“For what end, Ms. Pauling?”

“I don’t know, Janvier!” _Crackle._ She groaned, sighing, “I don’t know, either. But I will help you however I can, alright? Just... don’t tell your teammates anything. It’s safer to keep this between you and me. We don’t need any more trouble.”

“And what of these files?”

“Burn them- Look, I have to go. Be safe, okay?” _Click._

The line fell quiet. Spy traced his gloved fingers against the black and white photographs, remaining tense. Those were two directives he may not be able to comply with.

🜚

**_NÉV_ **

**_“Reliable Excavation and Demolition”_ **

_The Scout_

  * _Jeremy Delacroix_
  * _B. 1951 in Boston, Massachusetts, USA_



_Living Relatives: Mother - Cindy Everett. Father - Janvier Delacroix._

_People of Interest: N/A_

_The Soldier_

  * _Janek Novák-Doe_


  * B. 1914 in Canton, Ohio, USA



_Living Relatives: Mother - Natalia Novák._

_*People of Interest: Henry Strummer._

_The Pyro_

  * _Angel Faulkner_


  * B. 1942 in Glasgow, Scotland



_Living Relatives: N/A_

_People of Interest: Brianna Abbey._

_The Demoman_

  * _Tavish Finnegan DeGroot_


  * B. 1925 in Ullapool, Scotland



_Living Relatives: Mother - Mary DeGroot._

_People of Interest: N/A_

_The Heavy_

  * _Mikhail Voldov_


  * B. 1913 in Saint Petersburg, USSR



_Living Relatives: Mother - Iya Voldov. Sisters - Zhanna Voldov, Yanna Voldov, Bronislava Voldov._

_People of Interest: N/A_

_The Engineer_

  * _Daniel “Danny” Conagher_


  * B. 1922 in Austin, Texas, USA



_*Living Relatives: Mother - Marjorie Conagher. Father - Randall Conagher._

_People of Interest: Charlene Brasher._

_*The Medic_

  * _Alois Jakob Ludwig_
  * _B. [See: Pg. 145]_



_Living Relatives: N/A_

_People of Interest: [See: Pg. 145]_

_The [N/A]_

_The Spy_

  * _Janvier Delacroix_
  * _B. 1925 in Bordeaux, France_



_Living Relatives: *Son - Jeremy Delacroix._

_People of Interest: Cindy Everett._

🜚

_Crackle._

_Redirecting...02254...Felicia Pauling…_

_Click._

"Ms. Pauling. Have you made it to C'ville?"

🜚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title, "Nincsenek Istenek," is Hungarian. When translated, it means (roughly), "There are no Gods."
> 
> (Where the text is, after the break, is actually supposed to be a series of pictures, once they're completed.)
> 
> This isn't all. The second half is on the way. :)

**Author's Note:**

> This ambitious project is a rewriting of the TF2 storyline. It will follow the canon very, very loosely. Lots of things will be changed. 
> 
> Tags will change as the story continues.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated.


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